LINES  OF  BATTLE 

AND  OTHER  TO  EMS 

BY 

HENRY  HOWARD  BROWNELL 

SELECTED 

WITH  AN  INTRODUCTION  BY 
M.  A.  DEWOLFE  HOWE 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 

HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 

MDCCCCXII 


COPYRIGHT,    1912 
BY  HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 

All  rights  reserved 


THRFE   HUNDRZD  AND  THIRTY  COPIES  PRINTED  AT 
THE   RIVERSIDE  PPESS.  CAMPF.IDGE,  MASSACHUSETTS 
DUMBER 


es- 

LJ 

NOTE 

To  the  poet's  brother,  the  late  Charles  D'Wolf 
Brownell  of  Bristol,  Rhode  Island,  the  editor 
is  indebted  for  many  facts  not  otherwise  access 
ible.  Mrs.  James  T.  Fields  has  kindly  lent  him 
the  poet's  letters  to  her  husband. 


256966 


CONTENTS 

FARRAGUT'S  POET  (Editor's  Introduction)  1 

THE  BAY  FIGHT 29 

THE  BATTLE  OF  CHARLESTOWN      .          .  53 

ANNUS  MEMORABILIS       .          .          .  .56 

COMING     .....  59 

LET  us  ALONE         ...  6O 

FROM  u  THE  MARCH  OF  THE  REGIMENT  "  62 

HEARTS  OF  OAK  —  AN  EPITAPH        .  .     63 

WORDS  THAT  CAN  BE  SUNG,  ETC.     .  .  66 

ONE  WORD  ....  68 

SOMNIA  CCELI     .....  72 

BURY  THEM   .....  82 

THE  BATTLE  SUMMERS         .          .         .  85 

SUSPIRIA  ENSIS       .          .          .          .  .91 

THE  RIVER  FIGHT      ....  96 

A  WAR  STUDY      ...  ,110 


vn 


NlGHT-QuARTERS           .  H2 

DOWN!           .                              •  •   115 

ABRAHAM  LINCOLN      .                   •  1 1  7 

AN  EXTRACT  FROM  UJ£ON  "  -143 

FROM"  GULF- WEED"  146 

THE  BURIAL  OF  THE  DANE  •   150 

AT  SEA    ...  153 
ANACREONTIC 
PRESENTIMENT    . 

MIDNIGHT  —  A  LAMENT  •   162 

IN  ARTICULO  MORTIS  164 

QU'IL  MOURUT       .  -I65 
MARE  NON  CLAUSUM  .          .          .          .166 


FARRAGUTS  POET 


FARRAGUT'S  POET 

IN  the  first  year  of  the  Civil  War  Haw 
thorne  wrote  to  an  English  friend :  "Ten 
thousand  poetasters  have  tried,  and  tried  in 
vain  to  give  us  a  rousing  4  Scots  wha  hae 
wi'  Wallace  bled.'  If  we  fight  no  better 
than  we  sing,  may  the  Lord  have  mercy 
upon  us  and  upon  the  nation  !  "  Hawthorne 
lived  long  enough  to  see  that  his  country 
men,  North  and  South,  could  fight.  That 
they  could  also  sing  about  fighting  was 
perhaps  less  apparent  until  the  war  was 
past.  Naturally  the  country  was  more  occu 
pied  with  shooting  than  with  singing  while 
the  conflict  lasted ;  and  naturally  the  most 
enduring  poetic  memorials  of  the  period 
sprang  from  ' '  remembered  emotion . ' '  Yet 
a  few  songs  well  worth  the  hearing  were 
sung  in  the  very  glow  of  battle.  One  singer 
of  them,  Henry  Howard  Brownell,  secured 
from  Dr.  Holmes  the  title  of  "Our  Bat- 
tie  Laureate."  In  the  "Atlantic  "  article 
3 


'  which* give Brownell  this  name,  Dr.  Holmes 
was  willing  even  to  write :  1 4  If  Drayton  had 
fought  at  Agincourt,  if  Campbell  had  held 
a  sabre  at  Hohenlinden,  if  Scott  had  been  in 
the  saddle  with  Marmion,  if  Tennyson  had 
charged  with  the  six  hundred  atBalaklava, 
each  of  these  poets  might  possibly  have  pic 
tured  what  he  saw  as  faithfully  and  as  fear 
fully  as  Mr.  Brownell  has  painted  the  sea- 
fights  in  which  he  took  part  as  a  combatant." 
This  is  indeed  unstinted  praise,  and  cannot 
fairly  be  dismissed  as  due  to  the  enthusiasm 
of  a  moment,  when  one  places  beside  it  the 
words  which  Dr.  Holmes  wrote  in  a  private, 
unpublished  letter  more  than  ten  years  after 
BrownellV  death :  "Mr.  Henry  H.  Brow 
nell  was  one  of  the  most  gifted  men  I  have 
ever  met.  The  grasp  of  his  mind,  the  vigor 
of  his  imagination,  the  strength  of  his  mem 
ory,  and  the  way  in  which  he  used  it  in  con 
versation,  all  made  him  a  man  to  be  remem 
bered  among  the  most  highly  endowed 
persons  I  have  ever  met,  and  I  have  known 
most  of  our  own  most  distinguished  per 
sons,  in  this  region  at  least. ' '  Again,  of  the 
4 


man  himself  there  is  a  winning  picture 
drawn  in  the  concluding  lines  of  Mr.  Al- 
drich's  sonnet  which  has  Browneil  for  its 
subject :  - 

"  Little  did  he  crave 

Men's  praises  ;  modestly,  with  kindly  mirth, 
Not  sad,  nor  bitter,  he  accepted  fate  — 
Drank  deep  of  life,  knew  lxx>ks,  and  hearts  of  men, 
Cities  and  camps,  and  war's  immortal  woe, 
Yet  hore  through  all  (such  virtue  in  him  sate, 
His  spirit  is  not  whiter  now  than  then) 
A  simple,  loyal  nature  pure  as  snow." 

To  find  another  poem  by  Mr.  Aldrich, 
devoted  to  the  praise  of  BrownelFs  work  as 
hearty  as  this  praise  of  his  personality  ;  to 
find  Lowell  uttering  words  almost  as  enthu 
siastic  as  Dr.  Holmes's  about  the  "  Norse- 
hearted  poems  "  they  both  admired  ;  and  to 
note  the  present  oblivion  into  which  the 
poet  and  his  poems  have  certainly  fallen,  is 
to  ask  one's  self  whether  the  best  opinion 
of  Brownell's  contemporaries  was  entirely 
wrong,  or  whether  it  has  been  our  mistake 
to  permit  fame  to  elude  one  whose  hold  upon 
it  seemed  for  a  time  so  secure.  A  better 


acquaintance  with  the  man  and  his  work 
may  serve  to  throw  some  light  upon  the 
whole  matter. 

In  the  first  place  Henry  Howard  Brownell 
will  be  found  to  be  one  of  the  Americans 
who  can  best  stand  the  difficult,  well-known 
test  of  having  their  acquaintance  made  a 
century  or  two  before  their  birth .  Six  of  his 
lineal  ancestors  were  Mayflower  pilgrims. 
Between  their  day  and  Brownell' s,  Captain 
Benjamin  Church,  the  conqueror  of  King 
Philip,  and  three  soldiers  of  the  Bunker  Hill 
fight,  transmitted  their  blood  directly  to  him. 
If  the  martial  vigor  of  his  spirit  is  thus  to  be 
accounted  for,  it  is  no  less  easy  to  explain  his 
passion  for  the  sea  through  his  mother's  de 
scent  ;  for  she  was  of  the  sea-faring  Rhode 
Island  family  of  De  Wolf,  which  has  learned 
to  spell  its  name  in  almost  as  many  ways  as 
there  are  branches  of  the  parent  stock.  The 
poet's  mother,  moreover,  was  not  without 
poetic  instincts  and  acquirements  of  her 
own.  His  father,  Dr.  Pardon  Brownell,  was 
a  brother  of  Bishop  Brownell  of  Connecticut, 
and  practised  his  profession  of  medicine  in 
6 


East  Hartford,  whither  the  family  removed 
about  four  years  after  the  poet's  birth  at 
Providence,  Rhode  Island,  on  February  6, 
1820. 

When  there  is  only  one  anecdote  to  be 
told  of  a  poet's  boyhood,  it  is  well  to  have  it 
record  his  walking  two  miles  every  day,  at 
the  age  of  six,  to  a  neighbor's  house,  that  he 
might  read  a  translation  of  Homer,  in  the 
literal  truthfulness  of  which  he  firmly  be 
lieved.  Brownell  himself  touches  upon  this 
reminiscence  in  some  lines  written  in  early 
manhood  —  lines  which  speak  for  a  life 
long  devotion  and  study :  - 

'  Tis  that  beloved,  blind  old  man,  dear  Homer  ! 
Who  in  the  morning  of  this  clouded  life 
(Its  seventh  summer  yet  not  long  completed) 
Welcomed,  as  one  might  welcome  a  dear  child, 
My  wandering  footsteps  to  that  glorious  realm, 
Which  first  he  founded  and  shall  rule  forever." 

For  the  rest,  his  boyhood,  in  a  family  of 
spirited  youths,  does  not  appear  to  have 
been  exceptional.  A  good  element  of  adven 
ture  must  have  entered  into  their  sports,  if 

7 


the  later  life  of  one  of  the  brothers,  Dr. 
Clarence  Melville  Brownell,  grew  naturally 
out  of  the  East  Hartford  boyhood.  It  was 
he  who  in  1859  went  to  Peru,  crossed  the 
Andes,  in  the  face  of  unspeakable  difficult 
ies,  alone,  and  from  the  head  waters  of  the 
Amazon  followed  the  river  to  its  mouth .  In 
exploring  the  sources  of  the  White  Nile  a 
few  years  later  he  met  his  death.  Brownell' s 
inheritance  of  a  spirit  that  had  much  in  com 
mon  with  his  brother's  is  clearly  evident  in 
his  poems.   In  the  years  that  followed  his 
brief  clerkship  in  New  York  as  a  lad,  and 
his  graduation  at  Washington  (now  Trinity) 
College  in  1841,  it  is  impossible  to  ignore 
the  combining  influences  which  made  him 
and  his  writings  precisely  what  they  were. 
His  poetical  expression  of  himself  did  not 
reach  its  fulness  until  the  great  provocation 
of  the  Civil  War  arose  to  stab  his  spirit  broad 
awake.  For  twenty  years  his  pursuits  and 
experiences  were  making  him  ready  for  what 
he  was  to  do. 

Brownell's  service  as  a  teacher  in  Mobile, 
Alabama ,  for  some  months  immediately  after 


leaving  college,  must  have  had  its  direct  re 
sults,  for  in  all  of  his  later  significant  work 
a  knowledge  of  the  South  and  a  sympathy 
with  individual  members  of  its  society  are 
clearly  to  be  noticed.  It  was  natural  enough 
that  this  knowledge  made  him  early  and 
eagerly  an  abolitionist.  When  his  convic 
tions  upon  any  subject  were  formed,  they 
were  strong.  An  outward  gentleness,  which 
won  the  love  of  his  fellow-beings  of  every 
condition,  is  recorded  as  one  of  his  most 
striking  characteristics,  but  an  inward  vigor 
is  plainly  betokened  in  a  few  words  from  a 
foot-note  to  a  poem,  "The  Famine,"  in 
Brownell's  first  and,  be  it  said,  not  extraor 
dinary  volume  of  "Poems"  (1847).  The 
lines  are  a  scathing  denunciation  of  ease  and 
content  in  lives  of  high  place  and  common 
comfort  while  other  lives,  by  the  million,  are 
starved.  "  Some  very  good  people,  (in  their 
way,) "  says  the  foot-note,  "have  objected 
to  the  ideas  advanced  in  this  piece  that  they 
are  too  strongly  worded.  I  only  regret  that 
the  insufficiency  of  our  language,  or  my  own 
insufficiency  in  using  it,  has  prevented  me 
9 


from  expressing  them  more  forcibly." 
These  are  indeed  the  words  of  a  man  who 
must  bring  to  a  cause  like  that  of  anti-slav 
ery  all  the  vigor  of  his  nature.  But  though 
he  learned  at  the  South  to  hate  slavery,  he 
learned  also  to  love  individual  slave-holders. 
In  the  preface  to  his  first  volume  of  war 
poems,  "  Lyrics  of  a  Day,  or  Newspaper 
Poetry,  by  a  Volunteer  in  the  U.  S.  Service" 
(1864),  he  drew  a  clear  distinction  between 
slave-holding  and  some  holders  of  slaves; 
and  when  his  complete ' '  War  Lyrics' '  were 
published  in  1866,  he  reprinted  this  preface, 
justifying  it  by  saying  in  an  unpublished 
letter  to  James  T.  Fields,  "  I  have  had  very 
dear  friends,  Southerners,  whom  I  should 
like  to  see  that  I  have  not  been  actuated  by 
malice  or  hatred."  Uncompromising  as 
many  of  his  lines  in  condemnation  of  slavery 
must  have  seemed  to  them,  they  could  yet 
hardly  have  failed  to  recognize  the  honest 
sadness  of  such  a  stanza  as  this,  written  in 
1864:  — 

"  But  a  long  lament  for  others, 
Dying  for  darker  Powers !  — 
10 


Those  that  were  once  our  brothers, 
Whose  children  shall  yet  be  ours." 

Returning  early  from  Mobile  to  Hartford, 
Brownell  set  about  the  study  of  the  law,  was 
admitted  to  the  bar  in  1844,  and  practised 
his  profession  for  several  years  in  partner 
ship  with  one  of  his  brothers.  With  this 
brother  also  he  was  associated  in  the  literary 
work  which  soon  took  so  much  of  his  time 
as  his  rather  delicate  health  and  his  habit 
of  general  study  would  permit;  and  in  this 
work  one  finds  the  influences  which  contrib 
uted  to  another  element  of  his  mature  verse 
-its  abundance  of  allusion  to  mytholog 
ical  and  historical  subjects.  It  was  prosaic 
employment  for  a  poet  to  write  a  "  People's 
Book  of  Ancient  and  Modern  History"; 
but  the  success  with  which  Brownell  did 
this  in  1851  is  said  to  have  led  to  the  intro 
duction  of  subscription  book-publishing  in 
Hartford,  where  it  flourished  for  many  years. 
Immediately  after  this  undertaking,  he 
wrote  and  helped  his  brother  to  edit  exten 
sive  works  upon  the  pioneers  and  the  native 
races  of  North  and  South  America.  Thus 
ii 


was  his  mind  storing  itself  with  a  plentiful 
knowledge  of  many  things  in  the  past.  That 
he  was  keenly  alive  at  the  same  time  to  the 
concerns  of  the  present,  and  that  he  was  not 
forgetting  to  be  a  poet,  became  apparent  by 
the  publication  in  1855  of  a  small  volume 
which  took  its  title  from  its  longest  poem, 
"  Ephemeron,"  dealing  intimately  and  vig 
orously  with  the  condition  of  affairs  in 
Europe  which  led  to  the  Crimean  War. 
The  best  of  Brownell  was  still  waiting  for 
our  own  war  to  call  it  forth.  The  spirit, 
already  present,  which  for  its  richer  utter 
ances  needed  but  the  touch  of  a  more  per 
sonal  emotion,  is  suggested  by  a  stanza  from 
" Ephemeron"  :- 

"  God  hath  spoken,  Christ  hath  risen, 

Saints  have  dwelt  and  died  below  — 
Yet  the  World  is  still  a  Prison, 
Full  of  wrong,  and  full  of  woe !  " 

As  Brownell  came  to  be  a  singer,  not  only 
of  warfare,  but  particularly  of  war  by  sea, 
it  is  worth  while  to  note  yet  another  of  two 
influences  which  made  him  ready  for  his 

12 


work.  His  inherited  devotion  to  the  sea  was 
stimulated  by  frequent  voyages,  which 
served  also  to  render  him  thrice  familiar 
with  ships  and  the  deep  waters.  His  pre 
carious  health  took  him  more  than  once  to 
Cuba,  and  his  friendship  with  James  D. 
Bulloch,  the  Southern  sea-captain  under 
whose  agency  the  Alabama  was  subsequently 
secured  for  the  Confederacy,  gave  him  wel 
come  opportunities  for  voyaging  between 
New  York  and  New  Orleans.  To  Bulloch, 
sailing  northward  in  1859,  the  lines  "At 
Sea,"  were  addressed.  Those  who  know 
something  of  sea-going  for  themselves  must 
feel  that  the  poem  reveals  Brownell  infallibly 
as  both  a  true  son  and  a  true  singer  of  ships 
and  the  sea.  "The  Burial  of  the  Dane," 
written  a  year  earlier,  makes  the  same  reve 
lation,  and  has,  besides,  a  quality  of  human 
sympathy  without  which  a  poet  is  poor 
indeed. 

Fitted  as  Brownell  was  from  the  begin 
ning  to  sing  a  sailor's  song  of  the  Civil 
War,  it  was  to  the  other  elements  of  his  pre 
paredness  that  his  first  martial  notes  owed 


their  quality.  As  early  as  in  the  Fremont 
campaign  of  1856  he  had  sung  as  one  who 
clearly  foresees  war. '  'The  Battle  of  Charles- 
town  "  — scornful  and,  in  its  conclusion, 
ironically  prophetic — celebrated  the  hang 
ing  of  John  Brown.  Before  the  storm  burst, 
the  poet  felt  its  inevitable  approach,  and, 
while  the  Congress  of  1860-61  was  in  ses- 
sion/wrote  his  "  AnnusMirabilis."  When 
it  was  still  nearer,  in  April  of  1861,  his  voice 
rang  clear  in  the  poem  "Coming."  Sum- 
ter  and  the  Baltimore  19th  of  April  called 
forth  eager  lyrics  in  which  the  poetic  deed 
hardly  matched  the  patriotic  will.  As  the 
war  went  on,  battles,  individual  acts  of 
valor  and  the  broader  martial  and  moral  as 
pects  of  all  that  men  were  dying  for,  found 
in  Brownell  their  ready  singer.  The  Hart 
ford  newspapers  gave  his  verses  their  first 
currency,  and  they  passed  quickly  from 
place  to  place  like  coin  of  true  metal.  The 
homely  rhyme  of  the ' c  Old  Cove  "  in  a ' '  dis 
mal  swamp"  who  flung  a  stick  or  a  stone 
1 '  at  everybody  as  passed  that  road ' '  became 
a  byword  in  the  mouths  of  men.  The 


"Words  that  can  be  sung  to  the  '  Hallelu 
jah  Chorus '  "  may  not  have  been  sung  by 
the  thousands  of  soldiers  who  marched  to 
the  music  of 4 '  John  Brown's  Body, ' '  but  it 
was  not  because  Brownell  failed  to  provide 
words  which  almost  sang  themselves. 

These  and  many  other  of  Brownell' s  lines 
are  those  of  one  who  could  see  the  broader 
strokes  and  more  vivid  colors  in  the  picture 
of  war ;  yet  there  is  abundant  proof  in  c '  The 
Battle  Summers ' '  that  the  finer  lights  and 
shadows  of  the  conflict  did  not  escape  him ; 
for  here  the  aspects  of  nature,  scanned  by  an 
eye  sensitive  to  mark  their  subtlest  changes, 
are  interpreted  in  cunning  and  delicately 
poetic  conjunction  with  the  aspects  of  war. 

Brownell,  however,  might  have  gone  on 
to  the  end  of  the  war-time  producing  poems 
that  could  bear  no  possible  relation  to.his  per 
sonal  fortunes  if  he  had  not  chanced  one  day 
to  make  and  print  anonymously  in  the  Hart 
ford  ' '  Evening  Press ' '  a  skilfully  rhymed 
version  of  Farragut's  "  General  Orders  "  to 
his  fleet  before  the  attack  upon  New  Or 
leans.  By  a  happy  chance  the  lines  fell  under 
15 


Farragut's  eye,  and  so  delighted  him  that 
he  wrote  a  cordial  letter  of  appreciation  to 
the  unknown  writer.  From  this  a  corres 
pondence  between  the  two  men  sprang  up, 
and  in  the  course  of  it  Brownell  expressed  a 
strong  desire  to  see  a  naval  battle.  The  re 
sult  of  this  wish  was  that  Farragut  asked 
Brownell  to  join  his  staff,  and  before  the  end 
of  1863  secured  his  appointment  to  the  un 
usual  post  of  master's  mate  in  the  Navy,  a 
post  from  which  he  was  soon  advanced  to 
that  of  ensign,  with  special  duties  on  the 
Hartford  as  a  secretary  to  its  commander. 
Three  years  later,  when  Brownell  asked  the 
Admiral's  permission  to  dedicate  to  him 
the  volume  of  "  War  Lyrics,"  a  portion  of 
the  hearty  response,  signed '  'Your  affection 
ate  friend,  D.  G.  Farragut, "was  this  :  "I 
have  always  esteemed  it  one  of  the  happy 
events  of  my  life  that  I  was  able  to  gratify 
your  enthusiastic  desire  to  witness  one  of 
the  grandest  as  well  as  most  terrible  of  all 
nautical  events,  a  great  sea-fight !  And  you 
were  particularly  fortunate  in  its  being  one 
in  which  all  the  ingenuity  of  our  country 
16 


had  been  employed  to  render  it  more  ter 
rible  by  the  use  of  almost  every  implement 
of  destruction  known  in  the  world,  from  the 
old-fashioned  smooth-bore  gun  to  the  most 
diabolical  contrivances  for  the  destruction 
of  human  life.  And  permit  me  to  assure  you 
I  have  fully  realized  all  my  anticipations 
that  your  pen  would  faithfully  delineate  the 
scene  and  do  justice  to  the  subject."  The 
rest  of  Farragut's  letter  speaks  for  the  de 
voted  friendship  which  came  to  exist  be 
tween  the  admiral  and  his  poet ;  and  to  ap 
preciate  the  fulness  of  BrownelFs  oppor 
tunity  one  needs  to  remember  not  only  that 
he  sailed  on  the  Hartford  and  shared  in  her 
triumphs,  but  also  that  his  personal  rela 
tions  with  Farragut  were  most  intimate. 
The  uses  he  made  of  this  opportunity  and, 
later,  of  his  quickened  powers,  are  clearly 
revealed  in  many  a  page  of  his  verse. 

Of  the  poems  written  actually  on  board 
the  Hartford,  the  two  which  bear  the  earliest 
date,  March,  1864,  are  "  The  River  Fight" 
and  "A  War  Study."  Into  "  The  River 
Fight,"  the  " General  Orders"  which  had 
'7 


first  brought  Brownell  to  Farragut' s  notice 
were  woven.  ' '  The  Bay  Fight ' '  which  fol 
lowed  it  by  five  months  is  of  the  same  char 
acter,  and  has  the  palpable  advantage  of 
having  been  written  from  personal  know 
ledge  :  yet  the  earlier  poem  tells  of  the  naval 
attack  upon  New  Orleans  with  uncommon 
spirit  and  power.  The  c '  War  Study ' '  may 
be  read  for  its  own  high  beauty  and  for  all 
that  it  suggests  of  Farragut  and  of  Brown- 
ell's  relations  with  him. 

Farragut  had  already  passed  through 
fierce  sea-fights,  and  knew  their  full  mean 
ing,  but  his  fiercest  battle  was  yet  to  come, 
in  the  August  following  the  March  in  which 
the  "War  Study"  was  written,  and  at 
Mobile  Bay  Brownell  was  to  be  with  him. 
In  minor  engagements  he  had  already  taken 
part,  so  that  in  the  memorable  August  of 
1864,  he  was  capable,  it  is  reported,  of  aim 
ing  a  ' '  Sawyer  "  so  true  with  his  own  hand 
and  eye  as  to  strike  the  edge  of  a  parapet 
at  Fort  Powell.  In  the  fight  at  Mobile  Bay, 
Brownell  was  detailed  to  the  special  duty 
of  taking  notes  of  the  action  in  all  parts  of 
18 


the  ship,  "a  duty,"  in  the  words  of  Far- 
ragut's  report  to  the  Navy  Department, 
"which  he  performed  with  coolness  and 
accuracy."  The  story  is  told^that  when 
Brownell's  fellow  officers  wondered  after  the 
fight  at  the  clearness  and  steadiness  with 
which  his  notes  were  jotted  down,  he  re 
plied,  "I  did  not  want  any  of  you  picking 
up  my  manuscript  in  case  I  was  shot,  and 
saying  I  was  afraid."  On  the  same  sheets 
with  the  official  notes,  he  is  said  to  have 
made  lines  of  verse  and  poetical  memoranda 
which  found  their  way  almost  word  for 
word  into  his  great  poem  describing  the 
fight,  and  written  while  he  was  still  on  the 
Hartford,  almost  before  the  air  was  cleared 
of  the  thunder  and  smoke  of  battle.  The 
reader  of  "The  Bay  Fight"— entitled  if 
only  by  the  circumstances  of  its  production 
to  the  place  of  honor  in  the  following  collec 
tion  — may  find  for  himself  how  much  more 
it  is  than  a  mere  poetic  description  of  naval 
warfare  as  the  vanishing  generation  knew 
it — how  often,  indeed,  and  how  completely 
the  poetry  transcends  the  description. 
19 


There  is  another  long  poem  of  BrownelPs 
which,  in  spite  of  moments  when  one  could 
wish  it  a  little  shorter,  is  worthy  of  perhaps 
even  a  higher  regard  than ' '  The  Bay  Fight. ' ' 
This  is  ''Abraham  Lincoln,"  written  at 
Bristol,  Rhode  Island,  in  the  summer  of 
1865.  With  the  few  great  threnodies  for 
the  great  President  it  seems  to  those  who 
know  it  that  this  one  must  be  permanently 
ranked.  "I  am  rather  beginning  to  like  it, 
and  hope  you  will,"  Brownell  wrote  to  James 
T.  Fields  before  the  poem  was  completed. 
The  editor  of  the  ' '  Atlantic  ' '  evidently  re 
cognized  its  value,  for  thirteen  pages  of  the 
October  number  of  1865  were  devoted  to 
its  first  publication.  Its  characterizations  of 
Lincoln ,  its  poignant  echoings  of  the  nation's 
grief,  its  lofty  imaginative  conclusion  de 
scribing  Lincoln's  review  on  high  of  the 
troops  who  did  not  return  with  their  living 
comrades  to  the  Grand  Review  in  Wash 
ington — these  are  enough  to  justify  the 
claim  which  lovers  of  the  noble  poem  are 
wont  to  make  for  Brownell' s  surpassing 
power. 


20 


Brownell  resigned  from  the  navy  soon 
after  the  fight  at  Mobile  Bay,  and  most  of 
the  remainder  of  his  life  was  spent  quietly 
between  East  Hartford  and  Bristol,  where 
he  gave  many  summer  days  to  sailing  in  his 
new  catboat  the  Hartford,  built  for  him  by 
Herreshoff  &  Stone,  and  still  remembered 
in  Narragansett  waters.  Never  married,  he 
lived  upon  terms  of  devoted  intimacy  with 
his  mother,  working  steadily  at  a  long  un 
finished  and  unpublished  poem  tc^Eon." 
It  has  been  my  privilege  to  see  this  work 
which,  from  its  character  and  contents,  is 
never  likely  to  be  published  as  a  whole. 
The  poem  deals  with  many  themes,  nature, 
philosophy,  religion,  slavery,  civil  war,  love 
and  death,  — there  is  even  a  long  disquisi 
tion  and  commentary  on  ' '  Edwards  on  the 
Will."  The  complete  truth  of  Dr.  Holmes's 
words  about  Brownell' s  mental  equipment 
is  borne  out  by  the  remarkable  work.  Far 
too  often,  indeed,  the  poetry  is  overlaid  with 
learning.  But  there  are  flashes  of  felicity 
throughout.  One  of  them,  which  by  good 
fortune  can  be  published  first  in  this  place, 
21 


shows  how  vividly  in  Brownell's  mind  lived 
the  memory  of  his  battle  days  and  of  Far- 
ragut:  - 

"  When,  the  planks  all  red  thereunder, 

The  vast  gun-deck  roared  at  height, 
And  aloft,  in  smoke  and  thunder, 
Our  Great  Captain  ruled  the  fight. 

"(Comes  afresh,  sublimely  sweeping, 

All  the  stormy  scene  again  — 
The  black  cannon  inboard  leaping, 
And  the  rush  of  iron  rain ! 

"  The  gray  mist  of  death,  engorging 

Hull  and  shroud  in  thunder-strife  — 
And  the  narrow,  slowly  forging 
Street  of  wild  and  furious  life ! 

"  Ah,  brave  ship !  from  truck  to  keelson 

Manned  with  memories  of  the  bold ! 
Ours,  that  morn  a  nobler  Nelson, 
Ours,  a  grander  Tordenskiold. )  " 

In  all  the  field  of  martial  verse  it  would  be 
hard  to  find  a  finer  image  of  a  war-ship  in 
action  than 

"  the  narrow,  slowly  forging 
Street  of  wild  and  furious  life." 
22 


Still  another  extract  from  ".flEon,"  hitherto 
unpublished,  will  be  found  in  the  later  pages. 
Farragut,  living  and  dead,  never  ceased 
to  hold  an  important  place  in  Brovvneirs 
life  and  thought.  When  the  great  Admiral 
set  out  in  1867  on  his  triumphal  European 
cruise  on  the  Franklin  he  had  Brownell  re- 
appointed  to  his  staff,  and  for  a  year  and  a 
half  the  two  men  lived  together  in  the  closest 
relations  of  friendship.  After  their  return 
and  Farragut's  death,  Brownell  made  his 
last  appearance  in  public  at  a  Reunion  of 
the  "Society  of  the  Army  and  Navy  of  the 
Gulf,"  at  Newport  in  July  of  1871,  when 
he  read  a  poem, ' '  Gulf  Weed . ' '  Most  of  it 
does  not  differ  greatly  from  the  usual  after- 
dinner  performance ;  but  where  it  deals  most 
directly  with  the  memory  of  Farragut,  as  in 
the  passage  printed  in  this  volume,  the  singer 
is  stirred  again  to  poetic  achievement.  A 
single  stanza  seems  to  carry  with  it  even  a 
sonorous  premonition  of  Kipling :  - 

'  The  ships  shall  rot  to  dust,  and  the  cannons  scale 
to  rust, 

23 


But  it  will  not  fade,  that  grand  and  pure  Re 
nown, 

While  the  navies  ride  upon  the  stormy  tide, 
While  the  long  line-gales  go  thundering  down ! v 

In  the  year  after  the  reading  of  this  poem, 
Brownell  died  at  East  Hartford,  October  31, 
1872.  His  disease  was  cancer  of  the  face, 
and  for  the  quiet  courage  with  which  he 
endured  its  pains  it  is  enough  to  say  that  on 
one  occasion  he  insisted  upon  watching  the 
surgeon's  operation  upon  him,  by  means  of 
a  mirror  which  he  held  in  his  own  hand. 

There  has  been  no  attempt,  in  writing 
these  pages  and  choosing  the  selections 
which  follow,  to  conceal  a  wish  to  show 
Brownell  at  his  best.  More  poems  not  re 
lating  to  the  Civil  War  might  have  been 
brought  forward,  for  there  are  conspicuous 
merits  in  some  of  these.  But  the  merits  of  the 
poet  are  less  frequent  in  his  renderings  of 
the  themes  of  peace,  and  throughout  the 
book  which  has  chiefly  represented  him,  no 
discriminating  reader  can  fail  to  find  and  be 
discouraged  by  really  inferior  and  careless 
work.  If  a  rigorous  sifting  of  his  verses  had 
24 


been  made  before  their  publication  in  a  book, 
perhaps  even  if  the  book  itself  had  in  the  first 
instance  received  the  title,  "  Lines  of  Bat- 
tie,"  which  Brownell  urged  strongly,  but 
too  late,  upon  his  publisher,  when  the  print 
ing  of  "  War  Lyrics  "  was  nearly  finished, 
the  continuance  of  his  fame  might  have  been 
surer.  Small  things  sometimes  determine 
the  fate  of  books,  and  of  reputations.  The 
greater  danger  for  Brownell  from  the  first, 
however,  must  have  come  through  the  mix 
ing  of  the  dross  with  his  gold.  "To  be 
recognized  far  and  wide  as  a  great  poet,  to  be 
possible  and  receivable  as  a  classic,  Words 
worth,"  as  Matthew  Arnold  so  wisely  said, 
' '  needs  to  be  relieved  of  a  great  deal  of  the 
poetical  baggage  which  now  encumbers 
him."  Brownell,  in  his  own  degree,  has 
stood  conspicuously  in  the  same  need.  The 
contrasts  between  his  worst  and  his  best  are 
of  the  strongest.  To  those  who  realize  what 
his  best  could  be,  the  wonder  is  that  of  its 
own  force  it  has  not  more  successfully  dis 
encumbered  itself  of  its  poetical  baggage. 
That  it  will  still  succeed  in  doing  so  is  the 
25 


belief  of  those  for  whom  Mr.  Aldrich  spoke 
when  he  spoke  for  himself  in  his  "Thre 
nody  ' '  for  Brownell :  — 

"  You  shall  be  known 
When  lesser  men  have  had  their  day ; 
Fame  blossoms  where  true  seed  is  sown, 
Or  soon  or  late,  let  Time  wrong  what  it  may. 

"Unvexed  by  any  dream  of  fame, 
You  smiled  and  bade  the  world  pass  by ; 
But  I  —  I  turned,  and  saw  a  name 
Shaping  itself  against  the  sky  — 
White  star  that  rose  amid  the  battle's  flame  !  " 


LINES  OF  BATTLE 


THE  BAY  FIGHT 

(MOBILE  BAY,  AUGUST  5,  1864.) 

On  the  forecastle,  Ulf  the  Red 

Watched  the  lashing  of  the  ships  — 
"If  the  Serpent  lie  so  far  ahead, 

We  shall  have  hard  work  of  it  here," 
Said  he. 

LONGFELLOW'S  "Saga  of  King  Olaf." 

THREE  days  through  sapphire  seas  we  sailed, 

The  steady  Trade  blew  strong  and  free, 
The  Northern  Light  his  banners  paled, 
The  Ocean  Stream  our  channels  wet, 
We  rounded  low  Canaveral's  lee, 
And  passed  the  isles  of  emerald  set 
In  blue  Bahama's  turquoise  sea. 

By  reef  and  shoal  obscurely  mapped, 
And  hauntings  of  the  gray  sea- wolf, 

The  palmy  Western  Key  lay  lapped 
In  the  warm  washing  of  the  Gulf. 

But  weary  to  the  hearts  of  all 

The  burning  glare,  the  barren  reach 
29 


Of  Santa  Rosa's  weathered  beach, 
And  Pensacola's  ruined  wall. 

And  weary  was  the  long  patrol, 

The  thousand  miles  of  shapeless  strand, 

From  Brazos  to  San  Bias  that  roll 
Their  drifting  dunes  of  desert  sand. 

Yet,  coast-wise  as  we  cruised  or  lay, 
The  land-breeze  still  at  nightfall  bore, 

By  beach  and  fortress-guarded  bay, 
Sweet  odors  from  the  enemy's  shore, 

Fresh  from  the  forest  solitudes, 

Unchallenged  of  his  sentry  lines  — 

The  bursting  of  his  cypress  buds, 

And  the  warm  fragrance  of  his  pines. 

Ah,  never  braver  bark  and  crew, 
Nor  bolder  Flag  a  foe  to  dare, 

Had  left  a  wake  on  ocean  blue 

Since  Lion-Heart  sailed  Trenc-le-mer  f 

But  little  gain  by  that  dark  ground 

Was  ours,  save,  sometime,  freer  breath 

For  friend  or  brother  strangely  found, 
'Scaped  from  the  drear  domain  of  death. 

30 


And  little  venture  for  the  bold, 
Or  laurel  for  our  valiant  Chief, 
Save  some  blockaded  British  thief, 

Full  fraught  with  murder  in  his  hold, 

Caught  unawares  at  ebb  or  flood  — 
Or  dull  bombardment,  day  by  day, 
With  fort  and  earth-work,  far  away, 

Low  couched  in  sullen  leagues  of  mud. 

A  weary  time,  —  but  to  the  strong 
The  day  at  last,  as  ever,  came ; 

And  the  volcano,  laid  so  long, 

Leaped  forth  in  thunder  and  in  flame! 

"  Man  your  starboard  batter}- !  " 

Kimberly  shouted  — 
The  ship,  with  her  hearts  of  oak, 
Was  going,  mid  roar  and  smoke, 

On  to  victory ! 
None  of  us  doubted, 
No,  not  our  dying  — 
Farragut's  Flag  was  flying ! 

Gaines  growled  low  on  our  left, 
Morgan  roared  on  our  right 
Before  us,  gloomy  and  fell, 

31 


With  breath  like  the  fume  of  hell, 
Lay  the  Dragon  of  iron  shell, 
Driven  at  last  to  the  fight ! 

Ha,  old  ship !  do  they  thrill, 
The  brave  two  hundred  scars 
You  got  in  the  River- Wars  ? 

That  were  leeched  with  clamorous  skill, 
(Surgery  savage  and  hard,) 

Splinted  with  bolt  and  beam, 

Probed  in  scarfing  and  seam, 
Rudely  linted  and  tarred 

With  oakum  and  boiling  pitch, 

And  sutured  with  splice  and  hitch, 
At  the  Brooklyn  Navy- Yard ! 

Our  lofty  spars  were  down, 
To  bide  the  battle's  frown, 
(Wont  of  old  renown)  — 
But  every  ship  was  drest 
In  her  bravest  and  her  best, 

As  if  for  a  July  day; 
Sixty  flags  and  three, 

As  we  floated  up  the  bay  — 
Every  peak  and  mast-head  flew 
The  brave  Red,  White,  and  Blue  — 

We  were  eighteen  ships  that  day. 

32 


With  hawsers  strong  and  taut, 
The  weaker  lashed  to  port, 

On  we  sailed,  two  by  two  — 
That  if  either  a  bolt  should  feel 
Crash  through  caldron  or  wheel, 
Fin  of  bronze  or  sinew  of  steel, 

Her  mate  might  bear  her  through. 

Steadily  nearing  the  head, 
The  great  Flag-Ship  led, 

Grandest  of  sights ! 
On  her  lofty  mizen  flew 
Our  Leader's  dauntless  Blue, 

That  had  waved  o'er  twenty  fights  — 
So  we  went,  with  the  first  of  the  tide, 

Slowly,  mid  the  roar 

Of  the  Rebel  guns  ashore 
And  the  thunder  of  each  full  broadside. 

Ah,  how  poor  the  prate 
Of  statute  and  state 

We  once  held  with  these  fellows  — 
Here,  on  the  flood's  pale-green, 

Hark  how  he  bellows, 

Each  bluff  old  Sea-Lawyer ! 
Talk  to  them,  Dahlgren, 

Parrott,  and  Sawyer ! 

33 


On,  in  the  whirling  shade 

Of  the  cannon's  sulphury  breath, 
We  drew  to  the  Line  of  Death 

That  our  devilish  Foe  had  laid  — 

Meshed  in  a  horrible  net, 
And  baited  villanous  well, 

Right  in  our  path  were  set 
Three  hundred  traps  of  hell ! 

And  there,  O  sight  forlorn  ! 
There,  while  the  cannon 

Hurtled  and  thundered  — 
(Ah,  what  ill  raven 
Flapped  o'er  the  ship  that  morn ! )  — 
Caught  by  the  under-death, 
In  the  drawing  of  a  breath 
Down  went  dauntless  Craven, 
He  and  his  hundred ! 

A  moment  we  saw  her  turret, 

A  little  heel  she  gave, 
And  a  thin  white  spray  went  o'er  her, 

Like  the  crest  of  a  breaking  wave  — 
In  that  great  iron  coffin, 

The  channel  for  their  grave, 

The  fort  their  monument, 
34 


(Seen  afar  in  the  offing,) 
Ten  fathom  deep  lie  Craven 
And  the  bravest  of  our  brave. 

Then,  in  that  deadly  track, 

A  little  the  ships  held  back, 
Closing  up  in  their  stations  — 

There  are  minutes  that  fix  the  fate 
Of  battles  and  of  nations, 
(Christening  the  generations,) 

When  valor  were  all  too  late, 

If  a  moment's  doubt  be  harbored  — 

From  the  main-top,  bold  and  brief, 

Came  the  word  of  our  grand  old  Chief — 
"  Go  on  !  "  'twas  all  he  said  — 
Our  helm  was  put  to  starboard, 
And  the  Hartford  passed  ahead. 

Ahead  lay  the  Tennessee, 

On  our  starboard  bow  he  lay, 
With  his  mail-clad  consorts  three, 

(The  rest  had  run  up  the  Bay)  — 
There  he  was,  belching  flame  from  his  bow, 
And  the  steam  from  his  throat's  abyss 
Was  a  Dragon's  maddened  hiss  — 

In  sooth  a  most  cursed  craft!  — 

35 


In  a  sullen  ring  at  bay 
By  the  Middle  Ground  they  lay, 
Raking  us  fore  and  aft. 

Trust  me,  our  berth  was  hot, 
Ah,  wickedly  well  they  shot ; 

How  their  death-bolts  howled  and  stung ! 
And  the  water-batteries  played 
With  their  deadly  cannonade 

Till  the  air  around  us  rung ; 

So  the  battle  raged  and  roared  — 

Ah,  had  you  been  aboard 

To  have  seen  the  fight  we  made ! 

How  they  leaped,  the  tongues  of  flame, 
From  the  cannon's  fiery  lip  ! 

How  the  broadsides,  deck  and  frame, 
Shook  the  great  ship ! 

And  how  the  enemy's  shell 
Came  crashing,  heavy  and  oft, 
Clouds  of  splinters  flying  aloft 

And  falling  in  oaken  showers  — 
But  ah,  the  pluck  of  the  crew ! 

Had  you  stood  on  that  deck  of  ours, 
You  had  seen  what  men  may  do. 

36 


Still,  as  the  fray  grew  louder, 

Boldly  they  worked  and  well ; 
Steadily  came  the  powder, 

Steadily  came  the  shell. 
And  if  tackle  or  truck  found  hurt, 

Quickly  they  cleared  the  wreck ; 
And  the  dead  were  laid  to  port, 

All  a-row,  on  our  deck. 

Never  a  nerve  that  failed, 

Never  a  cheek  that  paled, 
Not  a  tinge  of  gloom  or  pallor  — 

There  was  bold  Kentucky's  grit, 
And  the  old  Virginian  valor, 

And  the  daring  Yankee  wit. 

There  were  blue  eyes  from  turfy  Shannon, 
There  were  black  orbs  from  palmy  Niger 

But  there,  alongside  the  cannon, 
Each  man  fought  like  a  tiger ! 

A  little,  once,  it  looked  ill, 

Our  consort  began  to  burn  — 
They  quenched  the  flames  with  a  will, 
But  our  men  were  falling  still, 

And  still  the  fleet  was  astern. 

37 


Right  abreast  of  the  Fort 

In  an  awful  shroud  they  lay, 
Broadsides  thundering  away, 

And  lightning  from  every  port  — 
Scene  of  glory  and  dread  ! 

A  storm-cloud  all  aglow 
With  flashes  of  fiery  red  — 

The  thunder  raging  below, 

And  the  forest  of  flags  o'erhead  ! 

So  grand  the  hurly  and  roar, 

So  fiercely  their  broadsides  blazed, 

The  regiments  fighting  ashore 
Forgot  to  fire  as  they  gazed. 

There,  to  silence  the  Foe, 

Moving  grimly  and  slow, 
They  loomed  in  that  deadly  wreath, 

Where  the  darkest  batteries  frowned 

Death  in  the  air  all  round, 
And  the  black  torpedoes  beneath  ! 

And  now,  as  we  looked  ahead, 

All  for'ard,  the  long  white  deck 
Was  growing  a  strange  dull  red  ; 
But  soon,  as  once  and  agen 
Fore  and  aft  we  sped, 

38 


(The  firing  to  guide  or  check,) 
You  could  hardly  choose  but  tread 

On  the  ghastly  human  wreck, 
(Dreadful  gobbet  and  shred 

That  a  minute  ago  were  men  !) 

Red,  from  main-mast  to  bitts ! 

Red,  on  bulwark  and  wale  — 
Red,  by  combing  and  hatch  — 

Red,  o'er  netting  and  rail ! 

And  ever,  with  steady  con, 
The  ship  forged  slowly  by  — 

And  ever  the  crew  fought  on, 

And  their  cheers  rang  loud  and  high. 

Grand  was  the  sight  to  see 

How  by  their  guns  they  stood, 
Right  in  front  of  our  dead 
Fighting  square  abreast  — 
Each  brawny  arm  and  chest 
All  spotted  with  black  and  red, 
Chrism  of  fire  and  blood  ! 

Worth  our  watch,  dull  and  sterile, 
Worth  all  the  weary  time  — 

Worth  the  woe  and  the  peril, 
To  stand  in  that  strait  sublime  ! 

39 


Fear  ?  A  forgotten  form  ! 

Death  ?  A  dream  of  the  eyes ! 
We  were  atoms  in  God's  great  storm 

That  roared  through  the  angry  skies. 

One  only  doubt  was  ours, 

One  only  dread  we  knew  — 
Could  the  day  that  dawned  so  well 
Go  down  for  the  Darker  Powers  ? 

Would the  fleet  get  through  ? 
And  ever  the  shot  and  shell 
Came  with  the  howl  of  hell, 
The  splinter-clouds  rose  and  fell, 

And  the  long  line  of  corpses  grew  — 
Would  the  fleet  win  through  ? 

They  are  men  that  never  will  fail, 

(How  aforetime  they  've  fought !) 
But  Murder  may  yet  prevail  — 

They  may  sink  as  Craven  sank. 
Therewith  one  hard,  fierce  thought, 
Burning  on  heart  and  lip, 
Ran  like  fire  through  the  ship  — 
Fight  her,  to  the  last  plank  ! 

A  dimmer  Renown  might  strike 
If  Death  lay  square  alongside  — 
40 


But  the  Old  Flag  has  no  like, 

She  must  fight,  whatever  betide  — 

When  the  War  is  a  tale  of  old, 

And  this  day's  story  is  told, 

They  shall  hear  how  the  Hartford  died ! 

But  as  we  ranged  ahead, 

And  the  leading  ships  worked  in, 
Losing  their  hope  to  win 

The  enemy  turned  and  fled  — 
And  one  seeks  a  shallow  reach, 
And  another,  winged  in  her  flight, 
Our  mate,  brave  Jouett,  brings  in  — 
And  one,  all  torn  in  the  fight, 

Runs  for  a  wreck  on  the  beach, 

Where  her  flames  soon  fire  the  night. 

And  the  Ram,  when  well  up  the  Bay, 

And  we  looked  that  our  stems  should  meet, 
(He  had  us  fair  for  a  prey,) 
Shifting  his  helm  midway, 

Sheered  off  and  ran  for  the  fleet ; 
There,  without  skulking  or  sham, 

He  fought  them,  gun  for  gun, 
And  ever  he  sought  to  ram, 

But  could  finish  never  a  one. 


From  the  first  of  the  iron  shower 
Till  we  sent  our  parting  shell, 

'Twas  just  one  savage  hour 

Of  the  roar  and  the  rage  of  hell. 

With  the  lessening  smoke  and  thunder, 
Our  glasses  around  we  aim  — 

What  is  that  burning  yonder  ? 

Our  Philippi,  —  aground  and  in  flame ! 

Below,  'twas  still  all  a-roar, 
As  the  ships  went  by  the  shore, 

But  the  fire  of  the  Fort  had  slacked, 
(So  fierce  their  volleys  had  been)  — 
And  now,  with  a  mighty  din, 
The  whole  fleet  came  grandly  in, 

Though  sorely  battered  and  wracked. 

So,  up  the  Bay  we  ran, 

The  Flag  to  port  and  ahead ; 

And  a  pitying  rain  began 

To  wash  the  lips  of  our  dead. 

A  league  from  the  Fort  we  lay, 

And  deemed  that  the  end  must  lag ; 

When  lo !  looking  down  the  Bay, 
There  flaunted  the  Rebel  Rag  — 
42 


The  Ram  is  again  underway 
And  heading  dead  for  the  Flag ! 

Steering  up  with  the  stream, 
Boldly  his  course  he  lay, 
Though  the  fleet  all  answered  his  fire, 
And,  as  he  still  drew  nigher, 
Ever  on  bow  and  beam 

Our  Monitors  pounded  away  — 
How  the  Chicasaw  hammered  away  ! 

Quickly  breasting  the  wave, 

Eager  the  prize  to  win, 
First  of  us  all  the  brave 

Monongahela  went  in 
Under  full  head  of  steam  — 
Twice  she  struck  him  abeam, 
Till  her  stem  was  a  sorry  work, 

(She  might  have  run  on  a  crag  !) 
The  Lackawana  hit  fair, 
He  flung  her  aside  like  cork, 

And  still  he  held  for  the  Flag. 

High  in  the  mizen  shroud, 

(Lest  the  smoke  his  sight  overwhelm,) 
Our  Admiral's  voice  rang  loud, 

"  Hard-a-starboard  your  helm  ! 

43 


Starboard  !  and  run  him  down !  " 

Starboard  it  was  —  and  so, 
Like  a  black  squall's  lifting  frown, 
Our  mighty  bow  bore  down 

On  the  iron  beak  of  the  Foe. 

We  stood  on  the  deck  together, 

Men  that  had  looked  on  death 
In  battle  and  stormy  weather  — 

Yet  a  little  we  held  our  breath, 

When,  with  the  hush  of  death, 
The  great  ships  drew  together. 

Our  Captain  strode  to  the  bow, 

Drayton,  courtly  and  wise, 

Kindly  cynic,  and  wise, 
(You  hardly  had  known  him  now, 

The  flame  of  fight  in  his  eyes !) 
His  brave  heart  eager  to  feel 
How  the  oak  would  tell  on  the  steel ! 

But,  as  the  space  grew  short, 

A  little  he  seemed  to  shun  us, 
Out  peered  a  form  grim  and  lanky, 

And  a  voice  yelled  —  "  Hard-a-port ! 
Hard-a-port !  —  here 's  the  damned  Yankee 
Coming  right  down  on  us !  " 

44 


He  sheered,  but  the  ships  ran  foul 
With  a  gnarring  shudder  and  growl  — 

He  gave  us  a  deadly  gun ; 
But  as  he  passed  in  his  pride, 
(Rasping  right  alongside !) 

The  Old  Flag,  in  thunder  tones, 
Poured  in  her  port  broadside, 
Rattling  his  iron  hide, 

And  cracking  his  timber  bones ! 

Just  then,  at  speed  on  the  Foe, 

With  her  bow  all  weathered  and  brown, 

The  great  Lackawana  came  down, 
Full  tilt,  for  another  blow ; 
We  were  forging  ahead, 

She  reversed  —  but,  for  all  our  pains, 
Rammed  the  old  Hartford,  instead, 

Just  for'ard  the  mizzen  chains ! 

Ah  !  how  the  masts  did  buckle  and  bend, 

And  the  stout  hull  ring  and  reel, 
As  she  took  us  right  on  end  ! 

(Vain  were  engine  and  wheel, 

She  was  under  full  steam)  — 
With  the  roar  of  a  thunder-stroke 
Her  two  thousand  tons  of  oak 

Brought  up  on  us,  right  abeam ! 

45 


A  wreck,  as  it  looked,  we  lay  — 
(Rib  and  plankshear  gave  way 

To  the  stroke  of  that  giant  wedge  !) 
Here,  after  all,  we  go  — 
The  old  ship  is  gone !  —  ah,  no, 

But  cut  to  the  water's  edge. 

Never  mind,  then  —  at  him  again  ! 

His  flurry  now  can't  last  long  ; 
He  '11  never  again  see  land  — 
Try  that  on  him^  Marchand  ! 

On  him  again,  brave  Strong ! 

Heading  square  at  the  hulk, 
Full  on  his  beam  we  bore ; 

But  the  spine  of  the  huge  Sea-Hog 

Lay  on  the  tide  like  a  log, 
He  vomited  flame  no  more. 

By  this,  he  had  found  it  hot  — 
Half  the  fleet,  in  an  angry  ring, 
Closed  round  the  hideous  Thing, 

Hammering  with  solid  shot, 

And  bearing  down,  bow  on  bow  — 
He  has  but  a  minute  to  choose ; 

Life  or  renown  ?  —  which  now 
Will  the  Rebel  Admiral  lose  ? 
46 


Cruel,  haughty,  and  cold, 

He  ever  was  strong  and  bold  — 

Shall  he  shrink  from  a  wooden  stem  ? 
He  will  think  of  that  brave  band 
He  sank  in  the  Cumberland  — 

Aye,  he  will  sink  like  them. 

Nothing  left  but  to  fight 
Boldly  his  last  sea-fight ! 

Can  he  strike  ?  By  heaven,  'tis  true  ! 

Down  comes  the  traitor  Blue, 
And  up  goes  the  captive  White  ! 

Up  went  the  White  !  Ah  then 
The  hurrahs  that,  once  and  agen, 
Rang  from  three  thousand  men 

All  flushed  and  savage  with  fight ! 
Our  dead  lay  cold  and  stark, 
But  our  dying,  down  in  the  dark, 

Answered  as  best  they  might  — 
Lifting  their  poor  lost  arms, 

And  cheering  for  God  and  Right ! 

Ended  the  mighty  noise, 
Thunder  of  forts  and  ships. 
Down  we  went  to  the  hold  — 

47 


O,  our  dear  dying  boys ! 

How  we  pressed  their  poor  brave  lips, 

(Ah,  so  pallid  and  cold !) 
And  held  their  hands  to  the  last, 

(Those  that  had  hands  to  hold). 

Still  thee,  O  woman  heart ! 

(So  strong  an  hour  ago) — 
If  the  idle  tears  must  start, 

'Tis  not  in  vain  they  flow. 

They  died,  our  children  dear, 

On  the  drear  berth  deck  they  died ; 

Do  not  think  of  them  here  — 

Even  now  their  footsteps  near 

The  immortal,  tender  sphere  — 

(Land  of  love  and  cheer  ! 
Home  of  the  Crucified  !) 

And  the  glorious  deed  survives. 

Our  threescore,  quiet  and  cold, 
Lie  thus,  for  a  myriad  lives 

And  treasure-millions  untold  — 
(Labor  of  poor  men's  lives, 
Hunger  of  weans  and  wives, 

Such  is  war-wasted  gold.) 


Our  ship  and  her  fame  to-day 
Shall  float  on  the  storied  Stream, 

When  mast  and  shroud  have  crumbled  away 
And  her  long  white  deck  is  a  dream. 

One  daring  leap  in  the  dark, 

Three  mortal  hours,  at  the  most  — 

And  hell  lies  stiff  and  stark 

On  a  hundred  leagues  of  coast. 

For  the  mighty  Gulf  is  ours  — 
The  Bay  is  lost  and  won, 
An  Empire  is  lost  and  won  ! 
Land,  if  thou  yet  hast  flowers, 
Twine  them  in  one  more  wreath 

Of  tenderest  white  and  red, 
(Twin  buds  of  glory  and  death !) 
For  the  brows  of  our  brave  dead  — 
For  thy  Navy's  noblest  Son. 

Joy,  O  Land,  for  thy  sons, 

Victors  by  flood  and  field ! 
The  traitor  walls  and  guns 

Have  nothing  left  but  to  yield  — 

(Even  now  they  surrender !) 

And  the  ships  shall  sail  once  more, 
And  the  cloud  of  war  sweep  on 

49 


To  break  on  the  cruel  shore  — 
But  Craven  is  gone, 
He  and  his  hundred  are  gone. 

The  flags  flutter  up  and  down 
At  sunrise  and  twilight  dim, 

The  cannons  menace  and  frown 
But  never  again- for  him, 
Him  and  the  hundred. 

The  Dahlgrens  are  dumb, 
Dumb  are  the  mortars — 

Never  more  shall  the  drum 
Beat  to  colors  and  quarters  — 
The  great  guns  are  silent. 

O  brave  heart  and  loyal ! 
Let  all  your  colors  dip  — 
Mourn  him,  proud  Ship ! 

From  main  deck  to  royal. 
God  rest  our  Captain, 
Rest  our  lost  hundred. 

Droop,  flag  and  pennant ! 

What  is  your  pride  for  ? 

Heaven,  that  he  died  for, 
Rest  our  Lieutenant, 

Rest  our  brave  threescore. 
50 


O  Mother  Land  !  this  weary  life 
We  led,  we  lead,  is  'long  of  thee ; 

Thine  the  strong  agony  of  strife, 
And  thine  the  lonely  sea. 

Thine  the  long  decks  all  slaughter-sprent, 

The  weary  rows  of  cots  that  lie 
With  wrecks  of  strong  men,  marred  and  rent, 

'Neath  Pensacola's  sky. 

And  thine  the  iron  caves  and  dens 

Wherein  the  flame  our  war-fleet  drives; 

The  fiery  vaults,  whose  breath  is  men's 
Most  dear  and  precious  lives. 

Ah,  ever,  when  with  storm  sublime 
Dread  Nature  clears  our  murky  air, 

Thus  in  the  crash  of  falling  crime 
Some  lesser  guilt  must  share. 

Full  red  the  furnace  fires  must  glow 
That  melt  the  ore  of  mortal  kind  : 

The  Mills  of  God  are  grinding  slow, 
But  ah,  how  close  they  grind ! 

To-day,  the  Dahlgren  and  the  drum 
Are  dread  Apostles  of  his  Name ; 


His  Kingdom  here  can  only  come 
By  chrism  of  blood  and  flame. 

Be  strong :  already  slants  the  gold 

Athwart  these  wild  and  stormy  skies ; 

From  out  this  blackened  waste,  behold, 
What  happy  homes  shall  rise  ! 

But  see  thou  well  no  traitor  gloze, 

No  striking  hands  with  Death  and  Shame, 

Betray  the  sacred  blood  that  flows 
So  freely  for  thy  name. 

And  never  fear  a  victor  foe  — 

Thy  children's  hearts  are  strong  and  high 
Nor  mourn  too  fondly  —  well  they  know 

On  deck  or  field  to  die. 

Nor  shalt  thou  want  one  willing  breath, 
Though,  ever  smiling  round  the  brave, 

The  blue  sea  bear  us  on  to  death, 
The  green  were  one  wide  grave. 

U.  S.  Fkgship  Hartford,  Mobile  Bay, 
August,  1864. 


THE  BATTLE  OF  CHARLESTOWN 

(DECEMBER  a,  1859.) 

FRESH  palms  for  the  Old  Dominion  ! 

New  peers  for  the  valiant  Dead  ! 
Never  hath  showered  her  sunshine 

On  a  field  of  doughtier  dread  — 
Heroes  in  buff  three  thousand, 

And  a  single  scarred  gray  head ! 

Fuss,  and  feathers,  and  flurry  — 

Clink,  and  rattle,  and  roar  — 
The  old  man  looks  around  him 

On  meadow  and  mountain  hoar; 
The  place,  he  remarks,  is  pleasant, 

I  had  not  seen  it  before. 

Form,  in  your  boldest  order, 
Let  the  people  press  no  nigher ! 

Would  ye  have  them  hear  to  his  words  — 
The  words  that  may  spread  like  fire  ? 
53 


'Tis  a  right  smart  chance  to  test  him — 
(Here  we  are  at  the  gallows-tree,) 

So  knot  the  noose  —  pretty  tightly  — 
Bandage  his  eyes  —  and  we  '11  see, 

(For  we  '11  keep  him  waiting  a  little,) 
If  he  tremble  in  nerve  or  knee. 

There,  in  a  string,  we  Ve  got  him ! 

(Shall  the  music  bang  and  blow  ?) 
The  chivalry  wheels  and  marches, 

And  airs  its  valor  below. 

Look  hard  in  the  blindfold  visage, 
(He  can't  look  back,)  and  inquire, 

(He  has  stood  there  nearly  a  quarter,) 
If  he  does  n't  begin  to  tire  ? 

Not  yet !  how  long  will  he  keep  us, 

To  see  if  he  quail  or  no  ? 
I  reckon  it 's  no  use  waiting, 

And  'tis  time  that  we  had  the  show. 

For  the  trouble  —  we  can't  see  why  — 
Seems  with  us  and  not  with  him, 

As  he  stands  'neath  the  autumn  sky, 
So  strangely  solemn  and  dim ! 
54 


But  high  let  our  standard  flout  it ! 

"  Sic  semper  "  —  the  drop  comes  down — 
And,  (woe  to  the  rogues  that  doubt  it !) 

There  's  an  end  of  old  John  Brown ! 

December  5th,  1859. 


ANNUS  MEMORABILIS 
(CONGRESS,    1860-61) 

STAND  strong  and  calm  as  Fate !  not  a  breath  of 

scorn  or  hate  — 
Of  taunt  for  the  base,  or  of  menace  for  the 

strong  — 
Since  our  fortunes  must  be  sealed  on  that  old  and 

famous  Field, 

Where  the  Right  is   set   in   battle   with  the 
Wrong. 

'Tis  coming,  with  the  loom  of  Khamsin  or  Simoom, 
The  tempest  that  shall  try  if  we  are  of  God  or 

no  — 
Its  roar  is  in  the  sky,  —  and  they  there  be  which 

cry, 
Let  us  cower,  and  the  storm  may  over-blow. 

Now,  nay !  stand  firm  and  fast !  (that  was  a  spiteful 

blast!) 

This  is  not  a  war  of  men,  but  of  Angels  Good 
and  111  — 

56 


'Tis  hell  that  storms  at  heaven  —  'tis  the  black 

and  deadly  Seven, 

Sworn  'gainst  the  Shining  Ones  to  work  their 
damned  will ! 

How  the  Ether  glooms  and  burns,  as  the  tide  of 
combat  turns, 

And  the  smoke  and  dust  above  it  whirl  and  float ! 
It  eddies  and  it  streams  —  and,  certes,  oft  it  seems 

As  the  Sins  had  the  Seraphs  fairly  by  the  throat. 

But  we  all  have  read,  (in  that  Legend  grand  and 

dread,) 
How  Michael  and  his  host  met  the  Serpent  and 

his  crew  — 
Naught  has  reached  us  of  the  Fight  —  but,  if  I 

have  dreamed  aright, 

'Twas  a  loud  one  and  a  long,  as  ever  thundered 
through ! 

Right  stiffly,  past  a  doubt,  the  Dragon  fought  it  out, 
And  his  Angels,  each  and  all,  did  for  Tophet 

their  devoir  — 

There  was  creak  of  iron  wings,  and  whirl  of  scor 
pion  stings, 

Hiss  of  bifid  tongues,  and  the  Pit  in  full  uproar ! 
57 


But,  naught  thereof  enscrolled,  in  one  brief  line 

'tis  told, 

(Calm  as  dew  the  Apocalyptic  Pen,) 
That  on  the  Infinite  Shore  their  place  was  found  no 

more. 
God  send  the  like  on  this  our  earth.  Amen. 

January  6th,  1861. 


COMING 

(APRIL,  1861.) 

,  art  thou  'ware  of  a  storm  ? 
Hark  to  the  ominous  sound, 
How  the  far-off  gales  their  battle  form, 
And  the  great  sea  swells  feel  ground  ! 

It  comes,  the  Typhoon  of  Death  — 

Near  and  nearer  it  comes ! 
The  horizon  thunder  of  cannon-breath 

And  the  roar  of  angry  drums  ! 

Hurtle,  Terror  sublime ! 

Swoop  o'er  the  Land,  to-day  — 
So  the  mist  of  wrong  and  crime, 
The  breath  of  our  Evil  Time, 

Be  swept,  as  by  fire,  away  ! 


59 


LET  US  ALONE 

"  All  we  ask  is  to  be  let  alone." 

As  vonce  I  valked  by  a  dismal  svamp, 
There  sot  an  Old  Cove  in  the  dark  and  damp, 
And  at  everybody  as  passed  that  road 
A  stick  or  a  stone  this  Old  Cove  throwed. 
And  venever  he  flung  his  stick  or  his  stone, 
He  'd  set  up  a  song  of  "  Let  me  alone." 

"  Let  me  alone,  for  I  loves  to  shy 

These  bits  of  things  at  the  passers  by  — 

Let  me  alone,  for  I  Ve  got  your  tin 

And  lots  of  other  traps  snugly  in  — 

Let  me  alone,  I  'm  riggin'  a  boat 

To  grab  votever  you  Ve  got  afloat  — 

In  a  veek  or  so  I  expects  to  come 

And  turn  you  out  of  your  'ouse  and  'ome  — 

I  'm  a  quiet  Old  Cove,"  says  he,  vith  a  groan 

"  All  I  axes  is  —  Let  me  alone." 

Just  then  came  along,  on  the  self-same  vay, 
Another  Old  Cove,  and  began  for  to  say  — 
"  Let  you  alone !  That 's  comin'  it  strong  !  — 
60 


You  Ve  ben  let  alone —  a  darned  sight  too  long — 

Of  all  the  sarce  that  ever  I  heerd ! 

Put  down  that  stick !  (You  may  well  look  skeered.) 

Let  go  that  stone !  If  you  once  show  fight, 

I  '11  knock  you  higher  than  ary  kite. 

You  must  hev  a  lesson  to  stop  your  tricks, 

And  cure  you  of  shying  them  stones  and  sticks  — 

And  I  '11  hev  my  hardware  back  and  my  cash, 

And  knock  your  scow  into  tarnal  smash ; 

And  if  ever  I  catches  you  round  my  ranch, 

I  '11  string  you  up  to  the  nearest  branch. 

The  best  you  can  do  is  to  go  to  bed, 

And  keep  a  decent  tongue  in  your  head ; 

For  I  reckon,  before  you  and  I  are  done, 

You  '11  wish  you  had  let  honest  folks  alone." 

The  Old  Cove  stopped,  and  the  t  'other  Old  Cove 
He  sot  quite  still  in  his  cypress  grove, 
And  he  looked  at  his  stick,  revolvin'  slow 
Vether  'twere  safe  to  shy  it  or  no  — 
And  he  grumbled  on,  in  an  injured  tone, 
"  All  that  I  axed  vos,  let  me  alone" 


FROM  "THE  MARCH  OF  THE  REGI 

MENT" 

O  FAIR  and  Faithful !  that,  sun  by  sun, 
Slept  on  the  field,  or  lost  or  won  — 
Children  dear  of  the  Holy  One  ! 

Rest  in  your  wintry  sod. 
Rest,  your  noble  Devoir  is  done  — 
Done  —  and  forever  !  —  ours,  to-day, 
The  dreary  drift  and  the  frozen  clay 

By  trampling  armies  trod  — 
The  smoky  shroud  of  the  War-Simoom, 
The  maddened  Crime  at  bay  with  her  Doom, 

And  fighting  it,  clod  by  clod. 
O  Calm  and  Glory  !  —  beyond  the  gloom, 
Above  the  bayonets  bend  and  bloom 

The  lilies  and  palms  of  God. 

February,  1862. 


62 


HEARTS  OF  OAK.— AN  EPITAPH 

(MARCH  8,  1862.) 

To  quarters —  stand  by,  my  hearties ! 

Every7  shot  to-day  must  tell  — 
Here  they  come  at  last,  the  lubbers, 

Boxed  up  in  their  iron  shell. 

Aye,  she 's  heading  dead  athwart  us, 

Where  the  fog  begins  to  lift  - 
Now  a  broadside,  and  all  together, 

At  the  bloody  rope- walk  adrift ! 

How  the  hog-back's  snout  comes  on  us ! 

Give  it  again  to  'em,  boys ! 
Ah,  there 's  a  crash  at  our  counter 

Can  be  heard  through  all  the  noise  ! 

'Tis  like  pitching  of  peas  and  pebbles  — 

No  matter  for  that,  my  men, 
Stand  by,  to  send  'em  another  — 

Ah,  I  think  we  hulled  her  then ! 

63 


Carpenter,  how  is  the  water  ? 

Gaming,  sir,  faster  and  higher ; 
'Tis  all  awash  in  the  ward-room  — 

Never  mind  —  we  can  load  and  fire ! 

Let  them  charge  with  their  Iron  Devil, 
They  never  shall  see  our  backs  — 

What,  all  afloat  on  our  gun-deck  ? 

Aye,  your  sponges  and  rammers  to  the  racks ! 

Sinking,  my  hearts,  at  an  anchor  — 

But  never  say  die  till  it 's  o'er ! 
Are  you  ready  there  on  the  spar-deck  ? 

We  '11  give  them  one  round  more. 

Ready  all,  on  the  spar-deck  ! 

Aye,  my  lads,  we  're  going  down  — 
She 's  heeling  —  but  one  more  broadside 

For  the  Navy  and  its  old  renown  ! 
Hurrah  !  there  go  the  splinters ! 

Ha,  they  shall  know  us  where  we  drown  ! 

Now  one  cheer  more,  my  hearties, 
For  the  Flag  and  its  brave  renown ! 

They  shall  hear  it,  the  fine  old  captains, 
With  Hull  and  Perry  looking  down. 

64 


They  're  watching  us,  where  we  founder, 
With  a  tear  on  each  tough  old  cheek  — 

Down  she  goes,  our  noble  frigate, 
But  the  Old  Flag 's  still  at  her  peak  ! 

It  waves  o'er  the  blood-red  water  — 

Lawrence  sees  it  where  it  flies ! 
And  they  look  down,  our  grand  old  captains, 

With  a  tear  and  a  smile  from  the  skies. 


WORDS  THAT  CAN  BE  SUNG 


TO  THE  "HALLELUJAH  CHORUS" 


OLD  John  Brown  lies  a-mouldering  in  the  grave, 
Old  John  Brown  lies  slumbering  in  his  grave — 
But  JohnBrown's  soul  is  marchingwith  the  brave, 

His  soul  is  marching  on. 
Glory,  glory,  hallelujah ! 
Glory,  glory,  hallelujah ! 
Glory,  glory,  hallelujah  ! 

His  soul  is  marching  on. 

He  has  gone  to  be  a  soldier  in  the  Army  of  the 

Lord, 

He  is  sworn  as  a  private  in  the  ranks  of  the  Lord  — 
He  shall  stand  at  ArjBageddqn  with  his  brave  old 
sword, 

When  Heaven  is  marching  on. 
Glory,  etc. 

For  Heaven  is  marching  on. 

He  shall  file  in  front  where  the  lines  of  battle  form, 
He  shall  face  to  front  when  the  squares  of  battle 
form  — 

66 


Time  with  the  column,  and  charge  in  the  storm, 

Where  men  are  marching  on. 
Glory,  etc. 

True  men  are  marching  on. 

Ah,  foul  tyrants !  do  ye  hear  him  where  he  comes  ? 
Ah,  black  traitors  !  do  ye  know  him  as  he  comes  ? 
In  thunder  of  the  cannon  and  roll  of  the  drums, 

As  we  go  marching  on. 
Glory,  etc. 

We  all  are  marching  on. 

Men  may  die,  and  moulder  in  the  dust  — 
Men  may  die,  and  arise  again  from  dust, 
Shoulder  to  shoulder,  in  the  ranks  of  the  Just, 

When  Heaven  is  marching  on. 
Glory,  etc. 

The  Lord  is  marching  on. 

April  lyth,  1862. 


ONE  WORD 

SPEAK  to  us,  to-day,  O  Father ! 

Our  hearts  are  strangely  stirred — 
A  Nation's  Life  is  hanging 

On  a  yet  unspoken  word. 

Long,  by  the  hearthstone  corner, 
May  the  aged  grandame  sit, 

And  toil,  with  trembling  fingers, 
That  another  sock  be  knit ; 

Men  may  march  and  manoeuvre, 
And  camp  on  fields  of  death  — 

The  Iron  Saurians  wheel  and  dart, 
And  thunder  their  fiery  breath ; 

But  one  brave  word  is  wanting  — 
The  word  whose  tone  should  start 

The  pulses  of  men  to  flamelets 
Thrilling  through  every  heart ! 

O  Father,  trust  your  children ! 
If  ever  you  found  them  fail, 
68 


'Twas  but  for  lack  of  the  one  true  word 
That  must  to  the  end  prevail. 

Where  funeral  willows  quiver 
On  the  banks  of  the  Mighty  River, 

'Twas  seen  what  men  may  do  — 
Flame  ahead,  and  flame  to  larboard  ! 

(Aye,  the  Pit's  mouth  burned  blue  !) 
Not  a  craven  thought  was  harbored  — 
'Twas  hell  to  port  and  starboard, 

But  the  Hearts  of  Oak  went  through ! 

They  have  shown  what  men  may  do, 
They  have  proved  how  men  may  die  — 

Count,  who  can,  the  fields  they  Ve  pressed, 
Each  face  to  the  solemn  sky ! 

Is  it  yet  forgotten,  of  Shiloh 

And  the  long  outnumbered  lines, 

How  the  blue  frocks  lay  in  winrows  ? 
How  they  died  at  the  Seven  Pines  ? 

How  they  sank  in  the  Varuna  ? 

(Seven  Foes  in  Flame  around  !) 
How  they  went  down  with  the  Cumberland, 

Firing,  cheering  as  they  drowned  ? 

' 


Spirits,  a  hundred  of  thousands, 

Eager,  and  bold,  and  true, 
Gone  to  make  good  one  brave,  just  word 

Father,  they  died  for  you ! 


Died,  in  tempest  of  battle, 

Died,  in  the  cot's  dull  pain  — 

Let  their  ghosts  be  glad  in  heaven, 
That  they  died  —  and  not  in  vain  ! 


And  never  fear  but  the  living 

Shall  stand,  to  the  last,  by  thee  — 

They  shall  yet  make  up  the  million, 
And  another,  if  need  there  be ! 


But  fail  not,  as  thy  trust  is  heaven, 
To  breathe  the  word  shall  wake 

The  holiest  fire  of  a  Nation's  heart — 
Speak  it,  for  Christ's  dear  sake ! 

Speak  it,  our  earthly  Father ! 

In  the  Name  of  His,  and  smile 
At  one  breath  more  of  the  Viper 

Whose  fangs  shall  crash  on  the  file ! 

70 


The  Angel- Songs  are  forever, 

The  Snake  can  hiss  but  his  day  — 

Speak,  O  Shepherd  of  Peoples  ! 
And  fold  earth's  blessings  for  aye. 

July  ayth,  1862. 


SOMNIA  CCELI 

(JANUARY  i,  i  863.) 

DOOM  of  Hate  and  of  Darkness! 

Dawn  of  Life  and  of  Light ! 
Surely,  'twas  God's  fair  Angel 

Stood  by  my  couch,  last  night. 

Looked  on  the  careworn  Creature, 
Pitied  the  yearning  Dust  — 

I  slept  the  sleep  of  the  Blessed, 
Dreamed  the  dreams  of  the  Just. 

O,  griefs  of  our  Infant  Being, 
O,  earthly  anguish  and  ills, 

All  at  an  end,  and  forever  !  — 
I  stood  on  the  Happy  Hills. 

The  hills  and  the  fields  of  Beulah 
Fair  in  the  Heavenly  Sun  ! 

Calm,  and  peace,  and  forgiveness  — 
Life  and  Death  were  at  one. 

Vale  and  forest  grew  dimmer, 
Cliff  gloomed  purple  and  gray  — 

72 


And  slowly  a  night  descended 

More  sweet  than  our  sunniest  day. 

But  far  in  the  lost  horizon, 

Through  the  Outer  Darkness  whirled 
A  vast  and  a  wretched  Shadow  — 

Methought,  'twas  this  our  world. 

Ah,  the  gloom  and  the  horror ! 

For  the  Powers  of  Air  had  met  — 
And  the  spears  of  Dawn  and  of  Death- Eclipse 

In  deadly  battle  were  set. 

Smoke,  and  shudder,  and  torment ! 

Crash,  and  rending,  and  wrack  !  — 
And  if  ever  the  Light  seemed  gaining, 

The  Dark  still  trampled  it  back. 

Had  I  passed  the  Shining  Portal, 

Which  the  Lovelier  Land  doth  keep  ? 

Ah,  nay !  —  for  these  eyes  were  mortal, 
And  they  could  not  choose  but  weep. 

But,  lifting  the  lids  of  anguish, 
I  was  'ware,  by  the  waning  light, 

Of  a  grand  and  a  holy  Presence, 
Calm  and  strong,  in  my  sight. 

73 


Grace,  and  gladness,  and  splendor ! 

Pity,  'mid  power  and  pride  !  — 
(Yet,  methought,  more  truly  tender 

A  dimmer  Form  at  his  side, 
Lovely,  pallid  and  slender, 

Sweetly  and  sadly  eyed.) 

And  the  glorious  Lips  bespake  me, 
With  a  smile,  as  half  in  mirth, 

Questioning  —  what  the  trouble 
Wearies  thee,  Child  of  Earth  ? 

What  thereto  could  I  answer  ? 

What  but,  with  sigh  and  tear  — 
All,  alas,  is  so  wretched  there  ! 

All  is  so  happy  here ! 

But  again  the  word  was  taken  — 
Therefore  art  thou  forlorn  ? 

How  dreamest  thou  what  the  angels, 
In  their  earthly  day,  have  borne  ? 

How  weary  their  earlier  way, 

While  yon  half-made  orb  they  trod 

The  blinder  reason,  the  dimmer  ray, 
The  ruder  working  of  God ! 

74 


For  'tis  raised,  the  tempest  of  trouble, 
(Though  seeming  judgment  or  curse,) 

Of  the  infinite  Love  and  Pity  — 
And  ever  to  thwart  a  worse. 

The  whirl,  the  crash,  and  the  ruin, 
(Much  though  it  seem  to  thee,) 

Is  naught  but  a  broken  toy  of  earth 
To  the  horror  that  else  should  be ! 

Were  it  better,  the  Lord's  fair  Garden 
Of  its  fruitage  forever  fail  — 

That  a  growth  of  drowsy  venom 
Still  fester  for  slug  and  snail  — 

Or  that  Crime,  the  monstrous  Mandrake, 
Be  rooted  with  shriek  and  wail  ? 

That  Hell,  unchallenged  forever, 

Craze  yon  Sphere-Soul  past  doubt  — 

Or  Earth,  possessed  of  her  Demon, 
Be  rent  in  the  casting  out  ? 

Hereon  'twere  idle  to  linger. 

True,  that  offence  must  come  — 
Woe,  ah  woe  to  the  bringer ! 

(But  the  gentler  Shade  was  dumb.) 

75 


He  spake  —  but  shadow  and  thunder 
Swept  o'er  the  unhappy  sphere  — 

And  a  low,  dull  throb  thereunder 
Trembled  on  heart  and  ear  — 

A  hollow,  heavy  pulsation, 

As  from  filling  of  trench  and  grave  — 
And  a  deeper  ululation 

Up  through  the  dark  did  wave  — 
The  moan  of  a  Mother-Nation 

For  her  darling  and  her  brave. 

Ever  from  earth  ascended 

The  thrill  and  shudder  of  pain  — 
When  shall  thy  grief  be  ended, 

O  Earth  ?  —  and  I  wept  again. 

Is  it  ever  of  woe  and  anguish, 
That  the  better  world  is  born? 

Ever  a  night  of  dreadful  dream 
Must  cradle  the  Holy  Morn  ? 

Thus  I  mourned  and  lamented, 
With  the  wearied  heart  of  a  child, 

'Feared,  lest  never  the  day  should  dawn  - 
But  again  the  Presence  smiled, 


And  again,  as  in  cheer,  he  spake  — 

Aye,  ever  yon  Cradle-Sphere 
Is  rudely  rocked  ere  the  Earth-Soul  wake  — 

But  another  rule  is  here, 
And  a  Morn  of  joy  no  shadow  may  break 

But  'tokens  a  happier  Year. 

And  therewith  pleaded  the  Other  — 

Is  it  so  unhappy  then, 
To  die  for  God  and  for  Mother, 

Rendering  the  soul  like  men  ? 

Is  it  grievous,  weapon  in  hand 
For  Faith  and  the  Holy  Name, 

To  pass,  in  strength,  to  the  wondrous  Land, 
By  the  Portal  of  Steel  and  Flame  ? 

Thunder,  to-day,  at  the  Outer  Gate ! 

Earth's  eager  squadrons  form  — 
The  daring  spirits  that  could  not  wait 

Are  taking  Heaven  by  storm ! 

The  splendor  of  battle  in  their  eyes, 

They  enter,  even  now  — 
How  it  lights  the  Port  of  Paradise, 

The  death-gleam  on  each  brow ! 

77 


The  fire  on  the  wan  cheek  flickered, 
The  form  was  in  act  to  fleet  — 

Yet  again  the  Voice  made  murmur, 
(It  was  strangely  low  and  sweet,) 

Not  thine,  as  yet,  even  here,  to  mark 
How  Life  and  Death  may  meet. 

Nor  mine,  to-night,  to  whisper 

The  word  could  set  thee  free  — 
They  faded,  the  mighty  Brothers, 

As  Twin-Clouds  fade  o'er  the  sea  — 
Yet  murmured  still,  in  their  going, 

Peace,  O  mortal,  with  thee I 
Sleep,  and  dream  the  salvation 

Thine  eyes,  the  morn,  shall  see. 

And  therewith  peace  waved  o'er  me  — 
The  mighty  morning  broke, 

From  fevered  slumber  and  guilty  dream 
The  Land,  in  wonder,  woke  — 

It  rocked  and  rang  to  the  noblest  Word 
Ever  a  mortal  spoke ! 

Though  these  our  changes  and  choices 
But  falter  the  Will  Divine,  — 

Of  all  the  infinite  voices 

That  throng  to  the  Central  Shrine, 

78 


None,  O  father,  rejoices 

Heaven,  to  the  heart,  like  thine ! 

A  touch  from  the  Unseen  Finger, 
Lo,  they  kindle,  the  lips  of  clay  — 

Ah,  for  a  worthier  singer  !  — 
Joy  thee,  O  earth  !  —  to-day, 

(Though  awhile  it  seemed  to  linger,) 
The  Shadow  passes  —  for  aye ! 

Thy  murky  shroud  to  the  Gone  shall  sweep 
On  the  wings  of  the  Thunder-Gale  — 

The  Share  of  the  Lord  is  driving  deep, 
But  blossom  nor  fruit  shall  fail. 

And  now,  come  wrath  and  reviling ! 

Let  the  Crime  rave  as  it  can, 
With  the  yelp  of  pettier  treason, 

The  caitiff  cursing  and  ban  — 
We  know  that  a  God  is  in  Heaven, 

We  know  that  Earth  has  a  Man ! 

Let  them  gloat,  the  ravined  Nations, 
Scenting  our  blood  through  the  dark, 

(As  his  fellows  glare  mid  the  salt-sea, 
Ere  they  tear  at  a  wounded  shark.) 

79 


Let  it  gnash,  the  rage  and  the  menace, 
And  the  gnarring,  o'er  and  o'er, 

Like  a  mangled  Wolf's,  from  out  yon  gloom- 
Telling,  as  time  afore, 

Murder  doth  not  go  to  the  doom 
Without  a  Death-Shrill  the  more ! 

Come,  battle  of  stormiest  breath, 
O'er  meadow  and  hill-side  brown 

The  long  lines  sweeping  up  to  death, 
'Mid  thunder  from  trench  and  town  — 

The  victor  cheer,  or  the  martyr  faith 
For  Right  and  for  God's  Renown  ! 

And  come,  the  shock  and  the  shudder  ! 

The  dull  and  heavy  heart-pain, 
The  watch,  the  woe,  and  the  waiting  — 

Once  more,  like  the  summer's  rain, 
Pour  thy  dear  blood,  beloved  Land !  — 

Never  a  drop  is  in  vain ! 

And  never  in  vain,  our  brothers ! 

That  dark  December's  day, 
For  the  Truth,  and  for  hope  to  others, 

By  slope  and  by  trench  ye  lay  — 
80 


Lay,  through  the  long  night's  damp, 

On  a  lost  and  fatal  field  ; 
But  a  stronger  Line,  and  a  vaster  Camp 

To  your  noble  charge  did  yield. 

Did  we  deem  'twas  woe  and  pity 
That  there,  in  your  flower,  ye  died  ? 

Ah,  fond !  —  the  Celestial  City 
Her  Portal  fair  flung  wide. 

The  mighty  Avenue  surges  — 

For,  to-day,  doth  enter  in 
An  Army  of  victor  souls  and  strong, 

Sublimed,  through  fire,  from  sin. 

And  their  ranks  form  deep  for  escort, 

The  holy  and  valiant  Throng 
Erst  risen,  through  storm  and  battle, 

Guarding  the  Good  'gainst  Wrong. 

The  Colors  ye  bore  in  vain  that  day 
Yet  wave  o'er  Heaven's  Recruits  — 

And  are  trooped  by  Aidenn's  starriest  Gate, 
While  the  Flaming  Sword  salutes ! 

January,  1863. 


BURY  THEM 

(WAGNER,  JULY  1 8,  1863.) 

BURY  the  dragon's  Teeth  ! 
Bury  them  deep  and  dark ! 
The  incisors  swart  and  stark, 
The  molars  heavy  and  dark  — 

And  the  one  white  Fang  underneath  ! 

Bury  the  Hope  Forlorn  ! 

Never  shudder  to  fling, 
With  its  fellows  dusky  and  worn, 

The  strong  and  beautiful  thing, 
(Pallid  ivory  and  pearl !) 

Into  the  horrible  Pit  — 
Hurry  it  in,  and  hurl 

All  the  rest  over  it ! 

Trample  them,  clod  by  clod, 

Stamp  them  in  dust  amain  ! 
The  cuspids,  cruent  and  red, 
That  the  Monster,  Freedom,  shed 
82 


On  the  sacred,  strong  Slave-Sod  — 
They  never  shall  rise  again  ! 

Never  ?  —  what  hideous  growth 

Is  sprouting  through  clod  and  clay  ? 

What  Terror  starts  to  the  day  ? 
A  crop  of  steel,  on  our  oath  ! 

How  the  burnished  stamens  glance  !  - 
Spike,  and  anther,  and  blade, 
How  they  burst  from  the  bloody  shade, 

And  spindle  to  spear  and  lance  ! 

There  are  tassels  of  blood-red  maize  — 
How  the  horrible  Harvest  grows ! 

'Tis  sabres  that  glint  and  daze  — 

'Tis  bayonets  all  ablaze 

Uprearing  in  dreadful  rows ! 

For  one  that  we  buried  there, 
A  thousand  are  come  to  air ! 
Ever,  by  door-stone  and  hearth, 
They  break  from  the  angry  earth  — 

And  out  of  the  crimson  sand, 
Where  the  cold  white  Fang  was  laid, 
Rises  a  terrible  Shade, 

The  Wraith  of  a  sleepless  Brand ! 

83 


And  our  hearts  wax  strange  and  chill, 
With  an  ominous  shudder  and  thrill, 

Even  here,  on  the  strong  Slave-Sod, 
Lest,  haply,  we  be  found, 
(Ah,  dread  no  brave  hath  drowned  !) 

Fighting  against  Great  God. 


THE   BATTLE   SUMMERS 

AGAIN  the  glory  of  the  days ! 

Once  more  the  dreamy  sunshine  fills 
Noon  after  noon,  —  and  all  the  hills 

Lie  soft  and  dim  in  autumn  haze. 

And  lovely  lie  these  meadows  low 
In  the  slant  sun  —  and  quiet  broods 
Above  the  splendor  of  the  woods 

All  touched  with  autumn's  tenderest  glow. 

The  trees  stand  marshalled,  clan  by  clan, 
A  bannered  army,  far  and  near  — 
(Mark  how  yon  fiery  maples  rear 

Their  crimson  colors  in  the  van  !) 

Methinks,  these  ancient  haunts  among, 
A  fuller  life  informs  the  fall  — 
The  crows  in  council  sit  and  call, 

The  quail  through  stubble  leads  her  young. 

The  woodcock  whirrs  by  bush  and  brake, 
The  partridge  plies  his  cedar-search  — 

85 


(Old  Andy  says  the  trout  and  perch 
Are  larger  now,  in  stream  and  lake.) 

O'er  the  brown  leaves,  the  forest  floor, 
With  nut  and  acorn  scantly  strewed, 
The  small  red  people  of  the  wood 

Are  out  to  seek  their  winter  store. 

To-day  they  gather,  each  and  all, 
To  take  their  last  of  autumn  suns  — 
E'en  the  gray  squirrel  lithely  runs 

Along  the  mossy  pasture  wall. 

By  marsh  and  brook,  by  copse  and  hill, 
To  their  old  quiet  haunts  repair 
The  feeble  things  of  earth  and  air, 

And  feed  and  flutter  at  their  will. 

The  feet  that  roved  this  woodland  round, 
The  hands  that  scared  the  timid  race, 
Now  mingle  in  a  mightier  chase, 

Or  mould  on  that  great  Hunting- Ground. 

Strange  calm  and  peace !  — ah,  who  could  deem, 
By  this  still  glen,  this  lone  hill-side, 
How  three  long  summers,  in  their  pride, 

Have  smiled  above  that  awful  Dream  ?  — 
86 


Have  ever  woven  a  braver  green, 
And  ever  arched  a  lovelier  blue ; 
Yet  Nature,  in  her  every  hue, 

Took  color  from  the  dread  Unseen. 

The  haze  of  Indian  Summer  seemed 

Borne  from  far  fields  of  sulphury  breath  — 
A  subtile  atmosphere  of  death 

Was  ever  round  us  as  we  dreamed. 

The  horizon's  dim  heat-lightning  played 

Like  small-arms,  still,  thro'  nights  of  drouth. 
And  the  low  thunder  of  the  south 

Was  dull  and  distant  cannonade. 

To  us  the  glory  or  the  gray 

Had  still  a  stranger,  stormier  dye, 
Remembering  how  we  watched  the  sky 

Of  many  a  waning  battle  day, 

O'er  many  a  field  of  loss  or  fame : 
How  Shiloh's  eve  to  ashes  turned, 
And  how  Manassas'  sunset  burned 

Incarnadine  of  blood  and  flame. 

And  how,  in  thunder,  day  by  day, 
The  hot  sky  hanging  over  all, 

87 


Beneath  that  sullen,  lurid  pall, 
The  Week  of  Battles  rolled  away ! 

"  Give  me  my  legions  !  "  —  so,  in  grief, 
Like  him  of  Rome,  our  Father  cried  : 
(A  Nation's  Flower  lay  down  and  died 
In  yon  fell  shade  !)  —  ah,  hapless  chief — 

Too  late  we  learned  thy  star !  —  o'erta'en, 
(Of  error  or  of  fate  o'erharsh,) 
Like  Varus,  in  the  fatal  marsh 

Where  skill  and  valor  all  were  vain ! 

All  vain —  Fair  Oaks  and  Seven  Pines ! 
A  deeper  hue  than  dying  Fall 
May  lend,  is  yours !  —  yet  over  all 

The  mild  Virginian  autumn  shines. 

And  still  a  Nation's  Heart  o'erhung 
The  iron  echoes  pealed  afar, 
Along  a  thousand  leagues  of  war 

The  battle  thunders  tossed  and  flung. 

Till,  when  our  fortunes  paled  the  most, 
And  Hope  had  half  forgot  to  wave 
Her  banner  o'er  the  wearied  brave  — 

A  morning  saw  the  traitor  host 
88 


Rolled  back  o'er  red  Potomac's  wave. 
And  the  Great  River  burst  his  way  !  — 
And  all  on  that  dear  Summer's  Day, 

Day  that  our  fathers  died  and  gave. 

Rest  in  thy  calm,  Eternal  Right ! 

For  thee,  though  levin-scarred  and  torn, 
Through  flame  and  death  shall  still  be  borne 

The  Red,  the  Azure,  and  the  White. 

We  pass  —  we  sink  like  summer's  snow  — 
Yet  on  the  mighty  Cause  shall  move, 
Though  every  field  a  Cannae  prove, 

And  every  pass  a  Roncesvaux. 

Though  every  summer  burn  anew 

A  battle  summer,  —  though  each  day 
We  name  a  new  Aceldema, 

Or  some  dry  Golgotha  re-dew. 

And  thou,  in  lonely  dream  withdrawn ! 
What  dost  thou,  while  in  tempest  dies 
The  long  drear  Night,  and  all  the  skies 

Are  red  with  Freedom's  fiery  Dawn  ! 

Behold,  thy  summer  days  are  o'er  — 
Yet  dearer,  lovelier  these  that  fall 


Wrapped  in  red  autumn's  flag,  than  all 
The  green  and  glory  gone  before. 

'Twas  well  to  sing  by  stream  and  sod, 
And  they  there  were  that  loved  thy  lays 
But  lo,  where,  'neath  yon  battle-haze, 

Thy  brothers  bare  the  breast  for  God ! 

Reck  not  of  waning  force  nor  breath  — 
Some  little  aid  may  yet  be  thine, 
Some  honor  to  the  All-Divine,  — 

To-day,  where,  by  yon  River  of  Death, 

His  stars  on  Rosecrans  look  down  — 
Or,  on  the  morrow,  by  moat  and  wall, 
Once  more  when  the  Great  Admiral 

Thunders  on  traitor  fleet  and  town. 

O  wearied  heart !  O  darkening  eye  ! 
(How  long  to  hope  and  trust  untrue !) 
What  in  the  hurly  can  ye  do  ? 

Little,  'tis  like  —  yet  we  can  die. 

October,  1863. 


SUSPIRIA  ENSIS 

MOURN  no  more  for  our  dead, 
Laid  in  their  rest  serene  — 

With  the  tears  a  Land  hath  shed 
Their  graves  shall  ever  be  green. 

Ever  their  fair,  true  glory 

Fondly  shall  fame  rehearse  — 

Light  of  legend  and  story, 
Flower  of  marble  and  verse  ! 

(Wilt  thou  forget,  O  Mother  ! 

How  thy  darlings,  day  by  day, 
For  thee,  and  with  fearless  faces, 

Journeyed  the  darksome  way  — 
Went  down  to  death  in  the  war-ship, 

And  on  the  bare  hill-side  lay  ?) 

For  the  Giver  they  gave  their  breath, 
And  'tis  now  no  time  to  mourn  — 

Lo,  of  their  dear,  brave  death 
A  mighty  Nation  is  born  ! 

But  a  long  lament  for  others, 
Dying  for  Darker  Powers !  — 

91 


Those  that  once  were  our  brothers, 
Whose  children  shall  yet  be  ours. 

That  a  People,  haughty  and  brave, 

(Warriors,  old  and  young  !) 
Should  lie  in  a  bloody  grave, 

And  never  a  dirge  be  sung  ! 

We  may  look  with  woe  on  the  dead, 
We  may  smooth  their  lids,  'tis  true, 

For  the  veins  of  a  common  red 
And  the  Mother's  milk  we  drew. 

But  alas,  how  vainly  bleeds 

The  breast  that  is  bared  for  Crime  - 
Who  shall  dare  hymn  the  deeds 

That  else  had  been  all  sublime  ? 

Were  it  alien  steel  that  clashed 

They  had  guarded  each  inch  of  sod  — 
But  the  angry  valor  dashed 

On  the  awful  shield  of  God  ! 

(Ah  —  if  for  some  great  Good  — 
On  some  giant  Evil  hurled  — 

The  Thirty  Millions  had  stood 

'Gainst  the  might  of  a  banded  world  !) 
92 


But  now,  to  the  long,  long  Night 
They  pass,  as  they  ne'er  had  been  — 

A  stranger  and  sadder  sight 
Than  ever  the  sun  hath  seen. 

For  his  waning  beams  illume 

A  vast  and  a  sullen  train 
Going  down  to  the  gloom  — 

One  wretched  and  drear  refrain 
The  only  line  on  their  tomb, — 

"  They  died  —  and  they  died  in  vain  !  " 

Gone  —  ay  me  !  —  to  the  grave, 
And  never  one  note  of  song  — 

The  Muse  would  weep  for  the  brave, 
But  how  shall  she  chant  the  wrong  ? 

For  a  wayward  Wench  is  she  — 

One  that  rather  would  wait 
With  Old  John  Brown  at  the  tree 

Than  Stonewall  dying  in  state. 

When,  for  the  wrongs  that  were, 
Hath  she  lilted  a  single  stave  ? 

Know,  proud  hearts,  that,  with  her, 
'Tis  not  enough  to  be  brave. 

93 


By  the  injured,  with  loving  glance, 
Aye  hath  she  lingered  of  old, 

And  eyed  the  Evil  askance, 

Be  it  never  so  haught  and  bold. 

With  Homer,  alms-gift  in  hand, 

With  Dante,  exile  and  free, 
With  Milton,  blind  in  the  Strand, 

With  Hugo,  lone  by  the  sea ! 

In  the  attic,  with  Beranger, 

She  could  carol,  how  blithe  and  free  ! 
Of  the  old,  worn  Frocks  of  Blue, 

(All  threadbare  with  victory ! ) 
But  never  of  purple  and  gold, 

Never  of  Lily  or  Bee ! 

And  thus,  though  the  Traitor  Sword 
Were  the  bravest  that  battle  wields  — 

Though  the  fiery  Valor  poured 
Its  life  on  a  thousand  fields  — 

The  sheen  of  its  ill  renown 

All  tarnished  with  guilt  and  blame, 
No  Poet  a  deed  may  crown, 

No  Lay  may  laurel  a  name. 

94 


Yet  never  for  thee,  fair  Song ! 

The  fallen  brave  to  condemn ; 
They  died  for  a  mighty  Wrong  — 

But  their  Demon  died  with  them. 

(Died,  by  field  and  by  city  !)  — 
Be  thine  on  the  day  to  dwell, 

When  dews  of  peace  and  of  pity 
Shall  fall  o'er  the  fading  hell  — 

And  the  dead  shall  smile  in  Heaven  • 
And  tears,  that  now  may  not  rise, 

Of  love  and  of  all  forgiveness, 
Shall  stream  from  a  million  eyes. 

Flag  Ship  Hartford,  at  Sea, 
January,  1864. 


THE  RIVER  FIGHT 

(MISSISSIPPI  RIVER,  APRIL  24,   1862.) 

Do  you  know  of  the  dreary  Land,       * 

If  land  such  region  may  seem, 
Where  'tis  neither  sea  nor  strand, 
Ocean  nor  good  dry  land, 

But  the  nightmare  marsh  of  a  dream  — 
Where  the  Mighty  River  his  death-road  takes, 
'Mid  pools,  and  windings  that  coil  like  snakes, 
(A  hundred  leagues  of  bayous  and  lakes,) 

To  die  in  the  great  Gulf  Stream  ? 

No  coast-line  clear  and  true, 
(Granite  and  deep  sea  blue,) 

On  that  dismal  shore  you  pass  — 
Surf- worn  boulder  nor  sandy  beach, 
But  ooze-flats  far  as  the  eye  can  reach, 

With  shallows  of  water-grass  — 
Reedy  savannas,  vast  and  dun, 
Lying  dead  in  the  dim  March  sun  — 
Huge  rotting  trunks  and  roots  that  lie 
Like  blackened  bones  of  the  Shapes  gone  by, 

And  miles  of  sunken  morass. 


No  lovely,  delicate  thing 

Of  life  o'er  the  waste  is  seen  — 
But  the  cayman  couched  by  his  weedy  spring, 

And  the  pelican,  bird  unclean  — 
Or  the  buzzard,  flapping  on  heavy  wing 

Like  an  evil  ghost,  o'er  the  desolate  scene. 

Ah,  many  a  weary  day 

With  our  Leader  there  we  lay, 

In  the  sultry  haze  and  smoke, 
Tugging  our  ships  o'er  the  bar  — 
Till  the  Spring  was  wasted  far, 

Till  his  brave  heart  almost  broke  — 
For  the  sullen  River  seemed 
As  if  our  intent  he  dreamed  — 

All  his  shallow  mouths  did  spew  and  choke. 

But,  ere  April  fully  past, 

All  ground  over  at  last, 

And  we  knew  the  die  was  cast  — 

Knew  the  day  drew  nigh 
To  dare  to  the  end  one  stormy  deed, 
Might  save  the  Land  at  her  sorest  need, 

Or  on  the  old  deck  to  die  ! 

Anchored  we  lay  —  and,  a  morn  the  more, 
To  his  captains  and  all  his  men 

97 


Thus  wrote  our  stout  old  Commodore  — 
(He  wasn't  Admiral  then  :) 


GENERAL  ORDERS 

"  Send  your  topgallant  masts  down, 
Rig  in  each  flying  jib-boom  ! 
Clear  all  ahead  for  the  loom 
Of  traitor  fortress  and  town, 
Or  traitor  fleet  bearing  down. 

In  with  your  canvas  high  — 

We  shall  want  no  sail  to  fly ! 
Topsail  and  foresail,  spanker  and  jib, 
(With  the  heart  of  oak  in  the  oaken  rib,) 

Shall  serve  us  to  win  or  die  ! 

Trim  every  hull  by  the  head, 
(So  shall  you  spare  the  lead,) 
Lest,  if  she  ground,  your  ship  swing  round, 

Bows  in-shore,  for  a  wreck  — 
See  your  grapnels  all  clear,  with  pains, 
And  a  solid  kedge  in  your  port  main-chains, 
With  a  whip  to  the  main-yard — 
Drop  it,  heavy  and  hard, 

When  you  grapple  a  traitor  deck  ! 
98 


On  forecastle  and  on  poop 

Mount  guns,  as  best  you  may  deem  — 
If  possible,  rouse  them  up, 

(For  still  you  must  bow  the  stream)  - 
Also  hoist  and  secure  with  stops 
Howitzers  firmly  in  your  tops, 

To  fire  on  the  foe  abeam. 

Look  well  to  your  pumps  and  hose  — 
Have  water-tubs,  fore  and  aft, 
For  quenching  flame  in  your  craft, 
And  the  gun-crews'  fiery  thirst  — 

See  planks  with  felt  fitted  close, 
To  plug  ever)7  shot-hole  tight  — 
Stand  ready  to  meet  the  worst ! 
For,  if  I  have  reckoned  aright, 

They  will  serve  us  shot,  both  cold  and  hot, 
Freely  enough,  to-night. 

Mark  well  each  signal  I  make  — 
(Our  life-long  service  at  stake, 

And  honor  that  must  not  lag  !) 
Whatever  the  peril  and  awe, 
In  the  battle's  fieriest  flaw, 
Let  never  one  ship  withdraw 

Till  orders  come  from  the  Flag !  " 

99 


Would  you  hear  of  the  River-Fight  ? 
It  was  two,  of  a  soft  spring  night  — 

God's  stars  looked  down  on  all, 
And  all  was  clear  and  bright 
But  the  low  fog's  chilling  breath  — 
Up  the  River  of  Death 

Sailed  the  Great  Admiral. 

On  our  high  poop-deck  he  stood, 

And  round  him  ranged  the  men 
Who  have  made  their  birthright  good 

Of  manhood,  once  and  agen  — 
Lords  of  helm  and  of  sail, 
Tried  in  tempest  and  gale, 

Bronzed  in  battle  and  wreck  — 
Bell  and  Bailey  grandly  led 
Each  his  Line  of  the  Blue  and  Red  — 
Wainwright  stood  by  our  starboard  rail, 

Thornton  fought  the  deck. 

And  I  mind  me  of  more  than  they, 
Of  the  youthful,  steadfast  ones, 
That  have  shown  them  worthy  sons 
Of  the  Seamen  passed  away  — 
(Tyson  conned  our  helm,  that  day, 
Watson  stood  by  his  guns.) 
100 


What  thought  our  Admiral,  then, 
Looking  down  on  his  men  ? 

Since  the  terrible  day, 

(Day  of  renown  and  tears  !) 

When  at  anchor  the  Essex  lay, 

Holding  her  foes  at  bay, 
When,  a  boy,  by  Porter's  side  he  stood 
Till  deck  and  plank-shear  were  dyedwith  blood, 
'Tis  half  a  hundred  years  — 

Half  a  hundred  years,  to-day  ! 

Who  could  fail,  with  him  ? 
Who  reckon  of  life  or  limb  ? 

Not  a  pulse  but  beat  the  higher ! 
There  had  you  seen,  by  the  star-light  dim, 
Five  hundred  faces  strong  and  grim  — 

The  Flag  is  going  under  fire  ! 
Right  up  by  the  fort,  with  her  helm  hard-a-port, 

The  Hartford  is  going  under  fire ! 

The  way  to  our  work  was  plain, 
Caldwell  had  broken  the  chain, 
(Two  hulks  swung  down  amain, 

Soon  as  'twas  sundered)  — 
Under  the  night's  dark  blue, 
Steering  steady  and  true, 
Ship  after  ship  went  through  — 
101 


Till,  as  we  hove  in  view, 
Jackson  out-thundered. 

Back  echoed  Philip  !  — ah,  then, 
Could  you  have  seen  our  men, 

How  they  sprung,  in  the  dim  night  haze, 
To  their  work  of  toil  and  of  clamor ! 
How  the  loaders,  with  sponge  and  rammer, 
And  their  captains,  with  cord  and  hammer, 

Kept  every  muzzle  ablaze  ! 
How  the  guns,  as  with  cheer  and  shout 
Our  tackle-men  hurled  them  out, 

Brought  up  on  the  water-ways ! 

First,  as  we  fired  at  their  flash, 

'Twas  lightning  and  black  eclipse, 
With  a  bellowing  roll  and  crash  — 
But  soon,  upon  either  bow, 

What  with  forts,  and  fire-rafts,  and  ships 
(The  whole  fleet  was  hard  at  it,  now, 
All  pounding  away  !)  —  and  Porter 
Still  thundering  with  shell  and  mortar  — 

'Twas  the  mighty  sound  and  form 

Of  an  Equatorial  storm! 

(Such  as  you  see  in  the  Far  South, 
After  long  heat  and  drouth, 

102 


As  day  draws  nigh  to  even  — 
Arching  from  North  to  South, 
Blinding  the  tropic  sun, 
The  great  black  bow  comes  on — 

Till  the  thunder-veil  is  riven, 

When  all  is  crash  and  levin, 

And  the  cannonade  of  heaven 
Rolls  down  the  Amazon  !) 

But,  as  we  worked  along  higher, 

Just  where  the  river  enlarges, 
Down  came  a  pyramid  of  fire  — 

It  was  one  of  your  long  coal  barges. 

(We  had  often  had  the  like  before)  — 
'Twas  coming  down  on  us  to  larboard, 

Well  in  with  the  eastern  shore  — 

And  our  pilot,  to  let  it  pass  round, 

(You  may  guess  we  never  stopped  to  sound,) 
Giving  us  a  rank  sheer  to  starboard, 

Ran  the  Flag  hard  and  fast  aground  ! 

'Twas  nigh  abreast  of  the  Upper  Fort, 
And  straightway  a  rascal  Ram 
(She  was  shaped  like  the  devil's  dam) 

Puffed  away  for  us,  with  a  snort, 

And  shoved  it,  with  spiteful  strength, 

Right  alongside  of  us,  to  port  — 
103 


It  was  all  of  our  ship's  length, 
A  huge  crackling  Cradle  of  the  Pit, 

Pitch-pine  knots  to  the  brim, 

Belching  flame  red  and  grim  — 
What  a  roar  came  up  from  it ! 

Well,  for  a  little  it  looked  bad  — 

But  these  things  are,  somehow,  shorter 
In  the  acting  than  the  telling  — 
There  was  no  singing-out  nor  yelling, 
Nor  any  fussing  and  fretting, 

No  stampede,  in  short  — 
But  there  we  were,  my  lad, 

All  a- fire  on  our  port  quarter ! 
Hammocks  a-blaze  in  the  netting, 

Flame  spouting  in  at  every  port  — 
Our  Fourth  Cutter  burning  at  the  davit, 
(No  chance  to  lower  away  and  save  it.) 

In  a  twinkling,  the  flames  had  risen 
Half  way  to  main  top  and  mizzen, 
Darting  up  the  shrouds  like  snakes ! 
Ah,  how  we  clanked  at  the  brakes, 

And  the  deep  steam-pumps  throbbed  under, 

Sending  a  ceaseless  flow  — 
Our  top-men,  a  dauntless  crowd, 
Swarmed  in  rigging  and  shroud  — 
104 


There,  ('twas  a  wonder.') 
The  burning  ratlins  and  strands 
They  quenched  with  their  bare  hard  hands  — 
But  the  great  guns  below 

Never  silenced  their  thunder ! 

At  last,  by  backing  and  sounding, 

When  we  were  clear  of  grounding, 
And  under  head- way  once  more, 

The  whole  rebel  fleet  came  rounding 
The  point  —  if  we  had  it  hot  before, 
'Twas  now,  from  shore  to  shore, 
One  long,  loud  thundering  roar  — 

Such  crashing,  splintering,  and  pounding, 
And  smashing  as  you  never  heard  before ! 

But  that  we  fought  foul  wrong  to  wreck, 
And  to  save  the  Land  we  loved  so  well, 

You  might  have  deemed  our  long  gun-deck 
Two  hundred  feet  of  hell! 

For  all  above  was  battle, 
Broadside,  and  blaze,  and  rattle, 

Smoke  and  thunder  alone — 
(But,  down  in  the  sick-bay, 
Where  our  wounded  and  dying  lay, 

There  was  scarce  a  sob  or  a  moan.) 
105 


And  at  last,  when  the  dim  day  broke, 
And  the  sullen  sun  awoke, 

Drearily  blinking 

O'er  the  haze  and  the  cannon-smoke, 
That  ever  such  morning  dulls — 
There  were  thirteen  traitor  hulls 

On  fire  and  sinking  ! 

Now,  up  the  river  !  —  though  mad  Chalmette 

Sputters  a  vain  resistance  yet. 

Small  helm  we  gave  her,  our  course  to  steer  — 

'Twas  nicer  work  than  you  well  would  dream, 
With  cant  and  sheer  to  keep  her  clear 

Of  the  burning  wrecks  that  cumbered   the 
stream. 


The  Louisiana,  hurled  on  high, 
Mounts  in  thunder  to  meet  the  sky ! 
Then  down  to  the  depth  of  the  turbid  flood, 
Fifty  fathom  of  rebel  mud ! 
The  Mississippi  comes  floating  down, 
A  mighty  bonfire,  from  off  the  town  — 
And  along  the  river,  on  stocks  and  ways, 
A  half-hatched  devil's  brood  is  a-blaze  — 
The  great  Anglo-Norman  is  all  in  flames, 
(Hark  to  the  roar  of  her  tumbling  frames !) 
106 


And  the  smaller  fry  that  Treason  would  spawn, 
Are  lighting  Algiers  like  an  angry  dawn  ! 

From  stem  to  stern,  how  the  pirates  burn, 

Fired  by  the  furious  hands  that  built ! 
So  to  ashes  forever  turn 

The  suicide  wrecks  of  wrong  and  guilt ! 
But,  as  we  neared  the  city, 

By  field  and  vast  plantation, 

(Ah,  mill-stone  of  our  Nation  !) 
With  wonder  and  with  pity 

What  crowds  we  there  espied 
Of  dark  and  wistful  faces, 
Mute  in  their  toi ling-places, 

Strangely  and  sadly  eyed  — 

Haply,  'mid  doubt  and  fear, 

Deeming  deliverance  near  — 

(One  gave  the  ghost  of  a  cheer !) 

And  on  that  dolorous  strand, 

To  greet  the  victor-brave 

One  flag  did  welcome  wave  — 
Raised,  ah  me  !  by  a  wretched  hand, 
All  outworn  on  our  cruel  Land  — 

The  withered  hand  of  a  slave  ! 

But  all  along  the  Levee 

In  a  dark  and  drenching  rain, 
107 


(By  this,  'twas  pouring  heavy,) 

Stood  a  fierce  and  sullen  train  — 
A  strange  and  a  frenzied  time ! 

There  were  scowling  rage  and  pain. 
Curses,  howls,  and  hisses, 
Out  of  hate's  black  abysses  — 
Their  courage  and  their  crime 
All  in  vain  —  all  in  vain ! 


For  from  the  hour  that  the  Rebel  Stream, 
With  the  Crescent  City  lying  abeam, 

Shuddered  under  our  keel, 
Smit  to  the  heart  with  self-struck  sting, 
Slavery  died  in  her  scorpion -ring, 

And  Murder  fell  on  his  steel. 


'Tis  well  to  do  and  dare  — 
But  ever  may  grateful  prayer 
Follow,  as  aye  it  ought, 
When  the  good  fight  is  fought, 

When  the  true  deed  is  done  — 
Aloft  in  heaven's  pure  light, 
(Deep  azure  crossed  on  white) 
Our  fair  Church-Pennant  waves 
O'er  a  thousand  thankful  braves, 
Bareheaded  in  God's  bright  sun. 
108 


Lord  of  mercy  and  frown, 

Ruling  o'er  sea  and  shore, 

Send  us  such  scene  once  more ! 

All  in  Line  of  Battle 

When  the  black  ships  bear  down 

On  tyrant  fort  and  town, 

Mid  cannon  cloud  and  rattle  — 

And  the  great  guns  once  more 

Thunder  back  the  roar 

Of  the  traitor  walls  ashore, 

And  the  traitor  flags  come  down ! 

Flag  Ship  Hartford,  March,  1864. 


A  WAR  STUDY 

METHINKS,  all  idly  and  too  well 
We  love  this  Nature  —  little  care 
(Whatever  her  children  brave  and  bear,) 

Were  hers,  though  any  grief  befell. 

With  gayer  sunshine  still  she  seeks 
To  gild  our  trouble,  so  'twould  seem ; 
Through  all  this  long,  tremendous  Dream, 

A  tear  hath  never  wet  her  cheeks. 

And  such  a  scene  I  call  to  mind  — 

The  third  day's  thunder,  (fort  and  fleet, 
And  the  great  guns  beneath  our  feet,) 

Was  dying,  and  a  warm  gulf  wind 

Made  monotone  'mid  stays  and  shrouds : 
O'er  books  and  men  in  quiet  chat 
With  the  Great  Admiral  I  sat, 

Watching  the  lovely  cannon-clouds. 

For  still,  from  mortar  and  from  gun, 
Or  short-fused  shell  that  burst  aloft, 
no 


Outsprung  a  rose- wreath,  bright  and  soft, 
Tinged  with  the  redly  setting  sun. 

And  I  their  beauty  praised  :  but  he, 

The  grand  old  Senior,  strong  and  mild, 
(Of  head  a  sage,  in  heart  a  child,) 

Sighed  for  the  wreck  that  still  must  be. 

Flag  Ship  Hartford,  March,  1864. 


NIGHT-QUARTERS 

TANG  !  tang !  went  the  gong's  wild  roar 

Through  the  hundred  cells  of  our  great  Sea- 
Hive  ! 
Five  seconds  —  it  could  n't  be  more  — 

And  the  whole  Swarm  was  humming  and 

alive  — 
(We  were  on  an  enemy's  shore). 

With  savage  haste,  in  the  dark, 
(Our  steerage  had  n't  a  spark,) 
Into  boot  and  hose  they  blundered  — 
From  for'ard  came  a  strange,  low  roar, 
The  dull  and  smothered  racket 
Of  lower  rig  and  jacket 
Hurried  on,  by  the  hundred  — 
How  the  berth  deck  buzzed  and  swore ! 

The  third  of  minutes  ten, 

And  half  a  thousand  men, 

From  the  dream-gulf,  dead  and  deep, 

Of  the  seaman's  measured  sleep, 

112 


In  the  taking  of  a  lunar, 

In  the  serving  of  a  ration, 
Every  man  at  his  station !  — 

Three  and  a  quarter,  or  sooner .' 
Never  a  skulk  to  be  seen  — 

From  the  look-out  aloft  to  the  gunner 
Lurking  in  his  black  magazine. 

There  they  stand,  still  as  death, 
And,  (a  trifle  out  of  breath, 

It  may  be,)  we  of  the  Staff, 
All  OB  the  poop,  to  a  minute, 
Wonder  if  there's  anything  in  it  — 

Doubting  if  to  growl  or  laugh. 

But,  somehow,  every  hand 

Feels  for  hilt  and  brand, 
Tries  if  buckle  and  frog  be  tight  — 

So,  in  the  chilly  breeze,  we  stand 
Peering  through  the  dimness  of  the  night 

The  men,  by  twos  and  ones, 

Grim  and  silent  at  the  guns, 
Ready,  if  a  Foe  heave  in  sight ! 

But,  as  we  looked  aloft, 
There,  all  white  and  soft, 

Floated  on  the  fleecy  clouds, 

"3 


(Stray  flocks  in  heaven's  blue  croft)  — 
How  they  shone,  the  eternal  stars, 
'Mid  the  black  masts  and  spars 

And  the  great  maze  of  lifts  and  shrouds ! 

Flag  Ship  Hartford,  May,  1864. 


DOWN! 

(APRIL,  1865.) 

YARD-ARM  to  yard-arm  we  lie 
Alongside  the  Ship  of  Hell  — 

And  still  through  the  sulphury  sky 

The  terrible  clang  goes  high, 

Broadside  and  battle  cry, 

And  the  pirates'  maddened  yell ! 

Our  Captain 's  cold  on  the  deck, 
Our  brave  Lieutenant 's  a  wreck  — 

He  lies  in  the  hold  there,  hearing 
The  storm  of  fight  going  on  overhead, 
Tramp  and  thunder  to  wake  the  dead  ! 
The  great  guns  jumping  overhead, 

And  the  whole  ship's  company  cheering ! 

Four  hours  the  Death-Fight  has  roared, 

(Gun-deck  and  berth-deck  blood- wet !) 
Her  mainmast 's  gone  by  the  board, 
Down  come  topsail  and  jib  I 
We  're  smashing  her,  rib  by  rib, 

"5 


And  the  pirate  yells  grow  weak  — 

But  the  Black  Flag  flies  there  yet, 
The  Death's  Head  grinning  a-peak  ! 

Long  has  she  haunted  the  seas, 

Terror  of  sun  and  breeze ! 

Her  deck  has  echoed  with  groans, 

Her  hold  is  a  horrid  den 
Piled  to  the  orlop  with  bones 

Of  starved  and  of  murdered  men  — 
They  swarm  'mid  her  shrouds  in  hosts, 
The  smoke  is  murky  with  ghosts ! 

But  to-day,  her  cruise  shall  be  short  — 
She 's  bound  to  the  Port  she  cleared  from, 
She  's  nearing  the  Light  she  steered  from  — 

Ah,  the  Horror  sees  her  fate  ! 
Heeling  heavy  to  port, 

She  strikes,  but  all  too  late ! 
Down,  with  her  cursed  crew, 

Down,  with  her  damned  freight, 
To  the  bottom  of  the  Blue, 
Ten  thousand  fathom  deep  ! 

With  God's  glad  sun  overhead  — 
That  is  the  way  to  weep, 

So  will  we  mourn  our  dead ! 


ABRAHAM   LINCOLN 

(SUMMER,  1865.) 

DEAD  is  the  roll  of  the  drums, 
And  the  distant  thunders  die, 
They  fade  in  the  far-off  sky ; 

And  a  lovely  summer  comes, 
Like  the  smile  of  Him  on  high. 

Lulled,  the  storm  and  the  onset. 

Earth  lies  in  a  sunny  swoon  ; 

Stiller  splendor  of  noon, 
Softer  glory  of  sunset, 

Milder  starlight  and  moon ! 

For  the  kindly  Seasons  love  us  ; 

They  smile  over  trench  and  clod, 
(Where  we  left  the  bravest  of  us,)  — 

There 's  a  brighter  green  of  the  sod, 
And  a  holier  calm  above  us 

In  the  blessed  Blue  of  God. 

The  roar  and  ravage  were  vain ; 
And  Nature,  that  never  yields, 

"7 


Is  busy  with  sun  and  rain 
At  her  old  sweet  work  again 
On  the  lonely  battle-fields. 

How  the  tall  white  daisies  grow, 
Where  the  grim  artillery  rolled  ! 

(Was  it  only  a  moon  ago  ? 
It  seems  a  century  old,)  — 

And  the  bee  hums  in  the  clover, 
As  the  pleasant  June  comes  on ; 

Aye,  the  wars  are  all  over,  — 
But  our  good  Father  is  gone. 

There  was  tumbling  of  traitor  fort, 
Flaming  of  traitor  fleet  — 

Lighting  of  city  and  port, 
Clasping  in  square  and  street. 

There  was  thunder  of  mine  and  gun, 

Cheering  by  mast  and  tent,  — 
When  —  his  dread  work  all  done, 
And  his  high  fame  full  won  — 
Died  the  Good  President. 

In  his  quiet  chair  he  sate, 
Pure  of  malice  or  guile, 
118 


Stainless  of  fear  or  hate,  — 

And  there  played  a  pleasant  smile 

On  the  rough  and  careworn  face ; 
For  his  heart  was  all  the  while 

On  means  of  mercy  and  grace. 

The  brave  old  Flag  drooped  o'er  him, 
(A  fold  in  the  hard  hand  lay,)  — 
He  looked,  perchance,  on  the  play,  — 

But  the  scene  was  a  shadow  before  him, 
For  his  thoughts  were  far  away. 

'Twas  but  the  morn,  (yon  fearful 
Death-shade,  gloomy  and  vast, 
Lifting  slowly  at  last,) 
His  household  heard  him  say, 
1  'Tis  long  since  I  Ve  been  so  cheerful, 
So  light  of  heart  as  to-day." 

'Twas  dying,  the  long  dread  clang,  — 
But,  or  ever  the  blessed  ray 
Of  peace  could  brighten  to  day, 
Murder  stood  by  the  way  — 

Treason  struck  home  his  fang  ! 

One  throb  —  and,  without  a  pang, 
That  pure  soul  passed  away. 
119 


Idle,  in  this  our  blindness, 
To  marvel  we  cannot  see 
Wherefore  such  things  should  be; 

Or  to  question  Infinite  Kindness 
Of  this  or  that  Decree. 

Or  to  fear  lest  Nature  bungle, 

That  in  certain  ways  she  errs,  — 
The  cobra  in  the  jungle, 

The  crotalus  in  the  sod, 
Evil  and  good  are  hers,  — 
Murderers  and  torturers ! 
Ye,  too,  were  made  by  God. 

All  slowly  heaven  is  nighing, 

Needs  that  offence  must  come ; 
Ever  the  Old  Wrong  dying 
Will  sting,  in  the  death-coil  lying, 
And  hiss  till  its  fork  be  dumb. 

But  dare  deny  no  further, 

Black-hearted,  brazen-cheeked ! 

Ye  on  whose  lips  yon  murther 

These  fifty  moons  hath  reeked, — 

From  the  wretched  scenic  dunce, 
Long  a-hungered  to  rouse 
120 


A  Nation's  heart  for  the  nonce,  — 
(Hugging  his  hell,  so  that  once 

He  might  yet  bring  down  the  house !) 

From  the  commons,  gross  and  simple, 
Of  a  blind  and  bloody  land, 

(Long  fed  on  venomous  lies !)  — 
To  the  horrid  heart  and  hand 

That  sumless  murder  dyes  — 
The  hand  that  drew  the  wimple 
Over  those  cruel  eyes, 

Pass  on,  —  your  deeds  are  done, 
Forever  sets  your  sun ; 

Vainly  ye  lived  or  died, 
'Gainst  Freedom  and  the  Laws,  — 
And  your  memory  and  your  cause 

Shall  haunt  o'er  the  trophied  tide, 

Like  some  Pirate  Caravel  floating 
Dreadful,  adrift  —  whose  crew 

From  her  yard-arms  dangle  rotting  — 
The  old  Horror  of  the  blue. 

Avoid  ye,  —  let  the  morrow 

Sentence  or  mercy  see. 
Pass  to  your  place :  our  sorrow 
121 


Is  all  too  dark  to  borrow 
One  shade  from  such  as  ye. 

But  if  one,  with  merciful  eyes, 
From  the  forgiving  skies 

Looks,  'mid  our  gloom,  to  see 
Yonder  where  Murder  lies, 
Stripped  of  the  woman  guise, 

And  waiting  the  doom  —  'tis  he. 

Kindly  Spirit !  —  Ah,  when  did  treason 
Bid  such  a  generous  nature  cease, 

Mild  by  temper  and  strong  by  reason, 
But  ever  leaning  to  love  and  peace  ? 

A  head  how  sober ;  a  heart  how  spacious ; 

A  manner  equal  with  high  or  low ; 
Rough  but  gentle,  uncouth  but  gracious, 

And  still  inclining  to  lips  of  woe. 

Patient  when  saddest,  calm  when  sternest, 
Grieved  when  rigid  for  justice'  sake  ; 

Given  to  jest,  yet  ever  in  earnest 

If  aught  of  right  or  truth  were  at  stake. 

Simple  of  heart,  yet  shrewd  therewith, 

Slow  to  resolve,  but  firm  to  hold ; 

122 


Still  with  parable  and  with  myth 
Seasoning  truth,  like  Them  of  old; 

Aptest  humor  and  quaintest  pith  ! 
(Still  we  smile  o'er  the  tales  he  told.) 

And  if,  sometimes,  in  saddest  stress, 
That  mind,  over-meshed  by  fate, 
(Ringed  round  with  treason  and  hate, 

And  guiding  the  State  by  guess,) 
Could  doubt  and  could  hesitate  — 

Who,  alas,  had  done  less 

In  the  world's  most  deadly  strait  ? 

But  how  true  to  the  Common  Cause ! 

Of  his  task  how  unweary  ! 
How  hard  he  worked,  how  good  he  was, 

How  kindly  and  cheery  ! 

How,  while  it  marked  redouble 
The  howls  and  hisses  and  sneers, 

That  great  heart  bore  our  trouble 
Through  all  these  terrible  years  ; 

And,  cooling  passion  with  state, 

And  ever  counting  the  cost, 
Kept  the  Twin  World-Robbers  in  wait 

Till  the  time  for  their  clutch  was  lost. 
123 


How  much  he  cared  for  the  State, 
How  little  for  praise  or  pelf! 

A  man  too  simply  great 

To  scheme  for  his  proper  self. 

But  in  mirth  that  strong  heart  rested 
From  its  strife  with  the  false  and  violent, 

A  jester !  —  So  Henry  jested, 
So  jested  William  the  Silent. 

Orange,  shocking  the  dull 

With  careless  conceit  and  quip, 

Yet  holding  the  dumb  heart  full 
With  Holland's  life  on  his  lip ! 

Navarre,  bonhomme  and  pleasant, 

Pitying  the  poor  man's  lot, 
Wishing  that  every  peasant 

A  chicken  had  in  his  pot  ; 

Feeding  the  stubborn  bourgeois, 
Though  Paris  still  held  out ; 

Holding  the  League  in  awe, 
But  jolly  with  all  about. 

Out  of  an  o'erflowed  fulness 

Those  deep  hearts  seemed  too  light,  — 
124 


(And  so  'twas,  murder's  dulness 
Was  set  with  sullener  spite.) 

Yet  whoso  might  pierce  the  guise 
Of  mirth  in  the  man  we  mourn, 

Would  mark,  and  with  grieved  surprise, 
All  the  great  soul  had  borne, 

In  the  piteous  lines,  and  the  kind,  sad  eyes 
So  dreadfully  wearied  and  worn. 

And  we  trusted,  (the  last  dread  page 

Once  turned,  of  our  Dooms-day  Scroll, ) 
To  have  seen  him,  sunny  of  soul, 

In  a  cheery,  grand  old  age. 

But,  Father,  'tis  well  with  thee ! 

And  since  ever,  when  God  draws  nigh, 
Some  grief  for  the  good  must  be, 

'Twas  well,  even  so  to  die,  — 

'Mid  the  thunder  of  Treason's  fall, 
The  yielding  of  haughty  town, 

The  crashing  of  cruel  wall, 

The  trembling  of  tyrant  crown  ! 

The  ringing  of  hearth  and  pavement 
To  the  clash  of  falling  chains,  — 
125 


The  centuries  of  enslavement 

Dead,  with  their  blood-bought  gains  ! 

And  through  trouble  weary  and  long 
Well  hadst  thou  seen  the  way, 

Leaving  the  State  so  strong 
It  did  not  reel  for  a  day ; 

And  even  in  death  couldst  give 
A  token  for  Freedom's  strife  — 

A  proof  how  republics  live, 
And  not  by  a  single  life, 

But  the  Right  Divine  of  man, 

And  the  many,  trained  to  be  free,  — 

And  none,  since  the  world  began, 
Ever  was  mourned  like  thee. 

Dost  thou  feel  it,  O  noble  Heart ! 

(So  grieved  and  so  wronged  below,) 
From  the  rest  wherein  thou  art  ? 
Do  they  see  it,  those  patient  eyes  ? 
Is  there  heed  in  the  happy  skies 

For  tokens  of  world-wide  woe  ? 

The  Land's  great  lamentations, 
The  mighty  mourning  of  cannon, 
126 


The  myriad  flags  half-mast  — 
The  late  remorse  of  the  nations, 
Grief  from  Volga  to  Shannon  ! 
(Now  they  know  thee  at  last.) 

How,  from  gray  Niagara's  shore 
To  Canaveral's  surfy  shoal  — 

From  the  rough  Atlantic  roar 
To  the  long  Pacific  roll  — 
For  bereavement  and  for  dole, 

Every  cottage  wears  its  weed, 
White  as  thine  own  pure  soul, 

And  black  as  the  traitor  deed. 

How,  under  a  nation's  pall, 
The  dust  so  dear  in  our  sight 

To  its  home  on  the  prairie  past, 
The  leagues  of  funeral, 

The  myriads,  morn  and  night, 
Pressing  to  look  their  last. 

Nor  alone  the  State's  Eclipse; 

But  how  tears  in  hard  eyes  gather  - 
And  on  rough  and  bearded  lips, 
Of  the  regiments  and  the  ships  — 

"  Oh,  our  dear  Father!" 
127 


And  methinks  of  all  the  million 

That  looked  on  the  dark  dead  face, 
'Neath  its  sable-plumed  pavilion, 

The  crone  of  a  humbler  race 
Is  saddest  of  all  to  think  on, 

And  the  old  swart  lips  that  said, 
Sobbing,  "  Abraham  Lincoln ! 

Oh,  he  is  dead,  he  is  dead  !  " 

Hush  !  let  our  heavy  souls 

To-day  be  glad ;  for  agen 
The  stormy  music  swells  and  rolls, 

Stirring  the  hearts  of  men. 

And  under  the  Nation's  Dome, 

They  've  guarded  so  well  and  long, 

Our  boys  come  marching  home, 
Two  hundred  thousand  strong. 

All  in  the  pleasant  month  of  May, 
With  war-worn  colors  and  drums, 

Still  though  the  livelong  summer's  day, 
Regiment,  regiment  comes. 

Like  the  tide,  yesty  and  barmy, 
That  sets  on  a  wild  lee-shore, 
128 


Surge  the  ranks  of  an  army 
Never  reviewed  before ! 

Who  shall  look  on  the  like  agen, 
Or  see  such  host  of  the  brave  ? 

A  mighty  River  of  marching  men 
Rolls  the  Capital  through  — 

Rank  on  rank,  and  wave  on  wave, 
Of  bayonet-crested  blue  ! 

How  the  chargers  neigh  and  champ, 
(Their  riders  weary  of  camp,) 

With  curvet  and  with  caracole  !  — 
The  cavalry  comes  with  thundrous  tramp, 

And  the  cannons  heavily  roll. 

And  ever,  flowery  and  gay, 
The  Staff  sweeps  on  in  a  spray 

Of  tossing  forelocks  and  manes  ; 
But  each  bridle-arm  has  a  weed 
Of  funeral,  black  as  the  steed 

That  fiery  Sheridan  reins. 

Grandest  of  mortal  sights 

The  sun-browned  ranks  to  view  — 
The  Colors  ragg'd  in  a  hundred  fights, 

And  the  dusty  Frocks  of  Blue ! 
129 


And  all  day,  mile  on  mile, 

With  cheer,  and  waving,  and  smile, 

The  war-worn  legions  defile 

Where  the  nation's  noblest  stand  ; 
And  the  Great  Lieutenant  looks  on, 

With  the  Flower  of  a  rescued  Land, 
For  the  terrible  work  is  done, 
And  the  Good  Fight  is  won 

For  God  and  for  Fatherland. 

So,  from  the  fields  they  win, 
Our  men  are  marching  home, 
A  million  are  marching  home ! 

To  the  cannon's  thundering  din, 
And  banners  on  mast  and  dome,  — 

And  the  ships  come  sailing  in 
With  all  their  ensigns  dight, 
As  erst  for  a  great  sea-fight. 

Let  every  color  fly, 

Every  pennon  flaunt  in  pride  ; 
Wave,  Starry  Flag,  on  high ! 
Float  in  the  sunny  sky, 

Stream  o'er  the  stormy  tide  ! 
For  every  stripe  of  stainless  hue, 
And  every  star  in  the  field  of  blue, 
130 


Ten  thousand  of  the  brave  and  true 
Have  laid  them  down  and  died. 

And  in  all  our  pride  to-day 
We  think,  with  a  tender  pain, 

Of  those  so  far  away 

They  will  not  come  home  again. 

And  our  boys  had  fondly  thought, 

To-day,  in  marching  by, 
From  the  ground  so  dearly  bought, 
And  the  fields  so  bravely  fought, 

To  have  met  their  Father's  eye. 

But  they  may  not  see  him  in  place, 
Nor  their  ranks  be  seen  of  him ; 

We  look  for  the  well-known  face, 
And  the  splendor  is  strangely  dim. 

Perished  ?  —  who  was  it  said 
Our  Leader  had  passed  away  ? 

Dead  ?  Our  President  dead  ? 
He  has  not  died  for  a  day  ! 

We  mourn  for  a  little  breath 

Such  as,  late  or  soon,  dust  yields; 


But  the  Dark  Flower  of  Death 
Blooms  in  the  fadeless  fields. 

We  looked  on  a  cold,  still  brow, 
But  Lincoln  could  yet  survive ; 
He  never  was  more  alive, 

Never  nearer  than  now. 

For  the  pleasant  season  found  him, 
Guarded  by  faithful  hands, 
In  the  fairest  of  Summer  Lands ; 

With  his  own  brave  Staff  around  him, 
There  our  President  stands. 

There  they  are  all  at  his  side, 
The  noble  hearts  and  true, 
That  did  all  men  might  do  — 

Then  slept,  with  their  swords,  and  died. 

Of  little  the  storm  has  reft  us 

But  the  brave  and  kindly  clay  — 

('Tis  but  dust  where  Lander  left  us, 
And  but  turf  where  Lyon  lay.) 

There 's  Winthrop,  true  to  the  end, 
And  Ellsworth  of  long  ago, 
132 


(First  fair  young  head  laid  low !) 
There 's  Baker,  the  brave  old  friend, 
And  Douglas,  the  friendly  foe. 

(Baker,  that  still  stood  up 

When  'twas  death  on  either  hand ; 
4  'Tis  a  soldier's  part  to  stoop, 
But  the  Senator  must  stand.") 

The  heroes  gather  and  form,  — 
There 's  Cameron,  with  his  scars, 

Sedgwick,  of  siege  and  storm, 

And  Mitchell,  that  joined  his  stars. 

Winthrop,  of  sword  and  pen, 
Wadsworth,  with  silver  hair, 

Mansfield,  ruler  of  men, 

And  brave  McPherson  are  there. 

Birney,  who  led  so  long, 
Abbott,  born  to  command, 

Elliott  the  bold,  and  Strong, 

Who  fell  on  the  hard-fought  strand. 

Lytle,  soldier  and  bard, 

And  the  Ellets,  sire  and  son  — 
Ransom,  all  grandly  scarred, 
And  Redfield,  no  more  on  guard, 

(But  Alatoona  is  won !) 


Reno,  of  pure  desert, 

Kearney,  with  heart  of  flame, 
And  Russell,  that  hid  his  hurt 

Till  the  final  death-bolt  came; 

Terrill,  dead  where  he  fought, 
Wallace,  that  would  not  yield, 

And  Sumner,  who  vainly  sought 
A  grave  on  the  foughten  field, 

(But  died  ere  the  end  he  saw, 

With  years  and  battles  outworn.) 
There's  Harmon  of  Kenesaw, 
And  Ulric  Dahlgren,and  Shaw, 
That  slept  with  his  Hope  Forlorn. 

Bayard,  that  knew  not  fear, 
(True  as  the  knight  of  yore,) 

And  Putnam,  and  Paul  Revere, 
Worthy  the  names  they  bore. 

Allen,  who  died  for  others, 

Bryan,  of  gentle  fame, 
And  the  brave  New  England  brothers 

That  have  left  us  Lowell's  name. 

Home,  at  last,  from  the  wars,  — 
Stedman,  the  staunch  and  mild, 


And  Janeway,  our  hero-child, 
Home,  with  his  fifteen  scars ! 

There  's  Porter,  ever  in  front, 

True  son  of  a  sea-king  sire, 
And  Christian  Foote,  and  Dupont, 
(Dupont,  who  led  his  ships 
Rounding  the  first  Ellipse 

Of  thunder  and  of  fire.) 

There 's  Ward,  with  his  brave  death-wounds, 
And  Cummings,  of  spotless  name, 

And  Smith,  who  hurtled  his  rounds 
When  deck  and  hatch  were  aflame ; 

Wainwright,  steadfast  and  true, 

Rodgers,  of  brave  sea-blood, 
And  Craven,  with  ship  and  crew 

Sunk  in  the  salt  sea  flood. 

And,  a  little  later  to  part, 

Our  Captain,  noble  and  dear  — 
(Did  they  deem  thee,  then,  austere  ? 

Drayton  !  —  O  pure  and  kindly  heart ! 
Thine  is  the  seaman's  tear.) 

All  such,  —  and  many  another, 
(Ah,  list  how  long  to  name !) 

'35 


That  stood  like  brother  by  brother, 
And  died  on  the  field  of  fame. 

And  around  —  (for  there  can  cease 
This  earthly  trouble)  —  they  throng, 

The  friends  that  had  passed  in  peace, 
The  foes  that  have  seen  their  wrong. 

(But,  a  little  from  the  rest, 
With  sad  eyes  looking  down, 
And  brows  of  softened  frown, 

With  stern  arms  on  the  chest, 

Are  two,  standing  abreast  — 

Stonewall  and  Old  John  Brown.) 

But  the  stainless  and  the  true, 
These  by  their  President  stand, 

To  look  on  his  last  review, 

Or  march  with  the  old  command. 

And  lo,  from  a  thousand  fields, 
From  all  the  old  battle-haunts, 

A  greater  Army  than  Sherman  wields, 
A  grander  Review  than  Grant's  ! 

Gathered  home  from  the  grave, 
Risen  from  sun  and  rain  — 


Rescued  from  wind  and  wave 
Out  of  the  stormy  main  — 

The  Legions  of  our  Brave 
Are  all  in  their  lines  again  ! 

Many  a  stout  Corps  that  went, 
Full-ranked,  from  camp  and  tent, 

And  brought  back  a  brigade  ; 
Many  a  brave  regiment, 

That  mustered  only  a  squad. 

The  lost  battalions, 

That,  when  the  fight  went  wrong, 
Stood  and  died  at  their  guns,  — 

The  stormers  steady  and  strong, 

With  their  best  blood  that  bought 
Scarp,  and  ravelin,  and  wall,  — 

The  companies  that  fought 

Till  a  corporal's  guard  was  all. 

Many  a  valiant  crew, 

That  passed  in  battle  and  wreck,  — 
Ah,  so  faithful  and  true  ! 

They  died  on  the  bloody  deck, 
They  sank  in  the  soundless  blue. 

137 


All  the  loyal  and  bold 

That  lay  on  a  soldier's  bier,  — 
The  stretchers  borne  to  the  rear, 

The  hammocks  lowered  to  the  hold. 

The  shattered  wreck  we  hurried, 
In  death- fight,  from  deck  and  port, 

The  Blacks  that  Wagner  buried  — 
That  died  in  the  Bloody  Fort ! 

Comrades  of  camp  and  mess, 

Left,  as  they  lay,  to  die, 
In  the  battle's  sorest  stress, 

When  the  storm  of  fight  swept  by,  - 
They  lay  in  the  Wilderness, 

Ah,  where  did  they  not  lie  ? 

In  the  tangled  swamp  they  lay, 

They  lay  so  still  on  the  sward !  — 
They  rolled  in  the  sick-bay, 
Moaning  their  lives  away  — 

They  flushed  in  the  fevered  ward. 

They  rotted  in  Libby  yonder, 

They  starved  in  the  foul  stockade  — 

Hearing  afar  the  thunder 
Of  the  Union  cannonade ! 

138 


But  the  old  wounds  all  are  healed, 
And  the  dungeoned  limbs  are  free,  - 

The  Blue  Frocks  rise  from  the  field, 
The  Blue  Jackets  out  of  the  sea. 

They  Ve  'scaped  from  the  torture-den, 
They  Ve  broken  the  bloody  sod, 

They  're  all  come  to  life  agen  !  — 

The  Third  of  a  Million  men 

That  died  for  Thee  and  for  God  ! 

A  tenderer  green  than  May 
The  Eternal  Season  wears,  — 

The  blue  of  our  summer's  day 
Is  dim  and  pallid  to  theirs,  — 

The  Horror  faded  away, 

And  'twas  heaven  all  unawares  ! 

Tents  on  the  Infinite  Shore  ! 

Flags  in  the  azuline  sky, 
Sails  on  the  seas  once  more  ! 

To-day,  in  the  heaven  on  high, 
All  under  arms  once  more  ! 

The  troops  are  all  in  their  lines, 
The  guidons  flutter  and  play ; 

But  every  bayonet  shines, 
For  all  must  march  to-day. 

139 


What  lofty  pennons  flaunt  ? 
What  mighty  echoes  haunt, 

As  of  great  guns,  o'er  the  main  ? 

Hark  to  the  sound  again  — 
The  Congress  is  all  a-taunt ! 

The  Cumberland 's  manned  again ! 

All  the  ships  and  their  men 

Are  in  line  of  battle  to-day,  — 

All  at  quarters,  as  when 

Their  last  roll  thundered  away,  — 

All  at  their  guns,  as  then, 
For  the  Fleet  salutes  to-day. 

The  armies  have  broken  camp 
On  the  vast  and  sunny  plain, 
The  drums  are  rolling  again ; 

With  steady,  measured  tramp, 
They  're  marching  all  again. 

With  alignment  firm  and  solemn,  — 

Once  again  they  form 
In  mighty  square  and  column, 

But  never  for  charge  and  storm. 

The  Old  Flag  they  died  under 
Floats  above  them  on  the  shore, 
140 


And  on  the  great  ships  yonder 
The  ensigns  dip  once  more  — 

And  once  again  the  thunder 
Of  the  thirty  guns  and  four! 

In  solid  platoons  of  steel, 

Under  heaven's  triumphal  arch, 

The  long  lines  break  and  wheel  — 

And  the  word  is,  "  Forward,  march !  " 

The  Colors  ripple  o'erhead, 
The  drums  roll  up  to  the  sky, 

And  with  martial  time  and  tread 
The  regiments  all  pass  by  — 

The  ranks  of  our  faithful  Dead, 
Meeting  their  President's  eye. 

With  a  soldier's  quiet  pride 

They  smile  o'er  the  perished  pain, 
For  their  anguish  was  not  vain  — 

For  thee,  O  Father,  we  died ! 
And  we  did  not  die  in  vain. 

March  on,  your  last  brave  mile  ! 

Salute  him,  Star  and  Lace, 
Form  round  him,  rank  and  file, 

And  look  on  the  kind,  rough  face ; 
141 


But  the  quaint  and  homely  smile 
Has  a  glory  and  a  grace 

It  never  had  known  erewhile  — 
Never,  in  time  and  space. 

Close  round  him,  hearts  of  pride  ! 
Press  near  him,  side  by  side,  — 

Our  Father  is  not  alone  ! 
For  the  Holy  Right  ye  died 
And  Christ,  the  Crucified, 

Waits  to  welcome  his  own. 


FROM".EON" 

To  an  else  unquiet  bosom 
Ye  how  gentle,  each  and  all ! 

Dear  the  glory  of  the  blossom, 
Sweet  the  sadness  of  the  fall. 

Summer's  flush  of  sultry  splendor,  - 
Winter's  tempest- whitened  waves  — 

Spring's  sweet  passion  —  autumn's  tender 
Sunshine  on  forgotten  graves. 

Misty  pines  that  glow  and  quiver 
O'er  the  blue  and  burning  plain,  — 

Moss-grey  rock  and  leaden  river, 
Lost  in  cold  autumnal  rain. 

Yellow  gleams  where  day  is  dying, 

Cold-barred  clouds,  dark  blue  and  dun  - 

And  the  bare  brown  meadows  lying 
In  the  low  slant  winter  sun. 

Mighty  halls  of  dun  and  amber  — 
Thunder,  when  the  dark  sky  nods, 

Rolling  through  each  vaulted  chamber 
Like  the  laughter  of  the  gods. 

H3 


Lightnings  in  their  midnight  onset, 

Like  a  sudden  lurid  dawn, 
Or  a  pallid,  ghastly  sunset 

Seen  an  instant  and  withdrawn. 

Level  beams  that  sunset  launches, 
Rosy  drifts  o'er  fields  that  lie, 

Hollows  blue  that  shadow  blanches, 
Trunks  suffused  in  orange  dye  — 

All  their  net  of  wintry  branches 
Brown  against  a  golden  sky. 

Massy,  broad  whale-backs  of  billows, 
Lifting  o'er  some  sunken  ledge  ; 

Still,  black  ponds  beneath  old  willows ; 
Melancholy  miles  of  sedge. 

Cloud-banks  in  the  leaden  offing,  — 
The  low  ground-swell,  feeling  ground, 

Like  the  clods  upon  a  coffin, 

Heard  with  dull  and  heavy  sound. 

Wild,  low-lying  scud  that  hurries 

Swift  o'erhead,  —  while  o'er  the  deep, 

Past  some  crag,  in  circling  flumes, 
Flaws,  like  ruffled  falcons,  sweep. 
144 


Dear  alike  in  sun  or  shadow  — 

Autumn  glory  doffed  or  donned  — 

Purple  woodland,  tawny  meadow, 
And  the  cold  blue  hills  beyond. 

When  the  rusty  boughs  are  swaying, 
And  in  eddies,  on  the  ground, 

The  dry  leaves,  like  children  playing, 
Chase  each  other  round  and  round. 

When  the  long  tree  shadows  spindle, 
Eastward  flung  o'er  level  snow, 

And  old  farm-house  windows  kindle  - 
All  their  wrinkled  panes  aglow  — 

As  the  wintry  day  doth  dwindle, 
And  the  setting  sun  burns  low. 


FROM  "GULF-WEED" 

(A  POEM  READ  AT  THE  THIRD  ANNUAL  REUNION 

OF   THE   SOCIETY    OF   THE   ARMY   AND   NAVY    OF 

THE  GULF,  NEWPORT,  JULY   7,   '871.) 

AYE,  we  cannot  all  forget,  since  last  in  joy  we  met, 
Our  noblest  and  our  best  has  crossed  the  Nar 
row  Tide : 
He  has  laid  him  down  to  rest,  the  union  on  his 

breast, 
And  the  brave  old  sword  by  his  side. 

And  now,  by  sea  and  shore,  we  shall  meet  him 

never  more, 
Never   clasp    again    that   hearty,  true    right 

hand  — 
Never  more  amid  us  here,  shall  he  come,  with 

kindly  cheer, 

To  greet  his  Brother  Captains  of  ocean  or  of 
land. 

Never  again,  from  mizen  or  from  main, 

Sight  o'er  the  cannon-haze,  by  bellowing  Pass 
or  Bay  — 


The  great  sea-fights  are  done,  and  the  quiet  shore 

is  won, 
And  the  smoke  of  battle  forever  rolled  away. 

The  ships  shall  rot  to  dust,  and  the  cannons  scale 

to  rust ; 

But  it  will  not  fade,  that  grand  and  pure  Re 
nown, 

While  the  navies  ride  upon  the  stormy  tide, 
While  the  long  line-gales  go  thundering  down ! 

In  the  Nation's  troubled  hour,  't  was  not  for  rank 

nor  power, 
Nor  even  for  the  fame  he  won  and  wore  so 

well  - 
But  for  Freedom's  holy  cause,  and  for  just  and 

equal  laws, 

He  dared  the  iron  shower,  he  hurled  the  victor 
shell. 

'T  is  deed  becomes  the  great,  more  than  reward  or 

state : 

Methought  that  he  was  grander  in  his  mien 
Ringed  round  with  flame  and  wreck,  on  the  old 

Hartford's  deck, 

Than  when  the  honored  guest  of  Emperor  or 
Queen. 

147 


What  though  weeds  be  worn  —  to-night  we  will 

not  mourn 
A  Name  whose  glory  shall  float  o'er  land  and 

wave ! 
Aye,  our  Admiral  is  gone  —  but  a  nation's  life  is 

won, 

And  a  nation's  love  and  honor  shall  ever  crown 
his  grave. 

Meet  him  never  more  ?  —  we  shall  meet  him  on 

the  Shore 
Where  the  gentle  and  the  brave  land  from  life's 

stormy  main  — 
Where  his  old  captains  wait  —  where  Craven  's 

past  the  strait, 

Where  Wainwright  's  risen,  where  Drayton  has 
met  his  Chief  again. 

And  I  trust  that  not  for  self,  nor  for  hate,  nor 

pride,  nor  pelf, 
Each  and  all  we  drew  the  sword  —  but  because 

full  well  we  knew, 
Were  the  Land  to  rise  again  from  her  couch  of 

mortal  pain, 

Here  was  hard  and  heavy  work  that  some  of  us 
must  do  ! 


Not  ours  the  craze  for  fight  —  but  there   is  a 

wrong  and  right ! 
So  to  the  work  we  went,  Blue  Jacket  and  Blue 

Frock, 
Much  like  old  Putnam  when  he  sought,  'mid 

Pomfret's  Den, 

The  couchant  eyes  of  coal  in  that  black  rift  of 
rock. 

And  seven  fair  springs  have  shone,  and  seven  wild 

winters  blown, 
Since  in  his  bloody  lair  we  grappled  the  Gray 

Wolf! 
But  'twill  toll,  a  century's  knell,  and  our  children's 

children  tell 
Of  the  Army  and  the  Navy  of  the  Gulf. 


THE  BURIAL  OF  THE  DANE 

BLUE  gulf  all  around  us, 

Blue  sky  overhead  — 
Muster  all  on  the  quarter, 

We  must  bury  the  dead ! 

It  is  but  a  Danish  sailor, 

Rugged  of  front  and  form ; 
A  common  son  of  the  forecastle, 

Grizzled  with  sun  and  storm. 

His  name,  and  the  strand  he  hailed  from 
We  know  —  and  there  's  nothing  more  ! 

But  perhaps  his  mother  is  waiting 
In  the  lonely  Island  of  Fohr. 

Still,  as  he  lay  there  dying, 

Reason  drifting  awreck, 
u  'Tis  my  watch,"  he  would  mutter, 

"  I  must  go  upon  deck  I  " 

Aye,  on  deck  —  by  the  foremast !  — 
But  watch  and  look-out  are  done ; 

150 


The  Union- Jack  laid  o'er  him, 
How  quiet  he  lies  in  the  sun ! 

Slow  the  ponderous  engine, 

Stay  the  hurrying  shaft  I 
Let  the  roll  of  the  ocean 

Cradle  our  giant  craft  — 
Gather  around  the  grating, 

Carry  your  messmate  aft ! 

Stand  in  order,  and  listen 

To  the  holiest  page  of  prayer ! 

Let  every  foot  be  quiet, 
Every  head  be  bare  — 

The  soft  trade-wind  is  lifting 
A  hundred  locks  of  hair. 

Our  captain  reads  the  service, 
(A  little  spray  on  his  cheeks,) 

The  grand  old  words  of  burial, 
And  the  trust  a  true  heart  seeks — 

"  We  therefore  commit  his  body 
To  the  deep  "  —  and,  as  he  speaks, 

Launched  from  the  weather  railing, 
Swift  as  the  eye  can  mark, 


The  ghastly,  shotted  hammock 
Plunges,  away  from  the  shark, 

Down,  a  thousand  fathoms, 
Down  into  the  dark  ! 

A  thousand  summers  and  winters 
The  stormy  Gulf  shall  roll 

High  o'er  his  canvas  coffin,  — 
But,  silence  to  doubt  and  dole ! 

There 's  a  quiet  harbor  somewhere 
For  the  poor  a- weary  soul. 

Free  the  fettered  engine, 
Speed  the  tireless  shaft ! 

Loose  to'gallant  and  topsail, 
The  breeze  is  fair  abaft ! 

Blue  sea  all  around  us, 

Blue  sky  bright  overhead  — 

Every  man  to  his  duty  1 
We  have  buried  our  dead. 

Steamship  Cahawba,  at  Sea,  Jan.  aoth,  1858. 


AT  SEA 

MIDNIGHT  in  drear  New  England, 
'Tis  a  driving  storm  of  snow  — 

How  the  casement  clicks  and  rattles, 
And  the  wind  keeps  on  to  blow  ! 

For  a  thousand  leagues  of  coast-line, 

In  fitful  flurries  and  starts, 
The  wild  North-Easter  is  knocking 

At  lonely  windows  and  hearts. 

Of  a  night  like  this,  how  many 
Must  sit  by  the  hearth,  like  me, 

Hearing  the  stormy  weather, 
And  thinking  of  those  at  sea  ! 

Of  the  hearts  chilled  through  with  watching, 

The  eyes  that  wearily  blink, 
Through  the  blinding  gale  and  snow-drift, 

For  the  Lights  of  Navesink  ! 

How  fares  it,  my  friend,  with  you  ?  — 
If  I  Ve  kept  your  reckoning  aright, 

'53 


The  brave  old  ship  must  be  due 
On  our  dreary  coast,  to-night. 

The  fireside  fades  before  me, 

The  chamber  quiet  and  warm  — 

And  I  see  the  gleam  of  her  lanterns 
In  the  wild  Atlantic  storm. 

Like  a  dream,  'tis  all  around  me  — 
The  gale,  with  its  steady  boom, 

And  the  crest  of  every  roller 
Torn  into  mist  and  spume  — 

The  sights  and  the  sounds  of  Ocean 
On  a  night  of  peril  and  gloom. 

The  shroud  of  snow  and  of  spoon-drift 
Driving  like  mad  a-lee  — 

And  the  huge  black  hulk  that  wallows 
Deep  in  the  trough  of  the  sea. 

The  creak  of  cabin  and  bulkhead, 
The  wail  of  rigging  and  mast  — 

The  roar  of  the  shrouds,  as  she  rises 
From  a  deep  lee-roll  to  the  blast. 

The  sullen  throb  of  the  engine, 
Whose  iron  heart  never  tires  — 


The  swarthy  faces  that  redden 
By  the  glare  of  his  caverned  fires. 

The  binnacle  slowly  swaying, 
And  nursing  the  faithful  steel  — 

And  the  grizzled  old  quarter-master, 
His  horny  hands  on  the  wheel. 

I  can  see  it —  the  little  cabin  — 
Plainly  as  if  I  were  there — 

The  chart  on  the  old  green  table, 
The  book,  and  the  empty  chair. 

On  the  deck  we  have  trod  together, 
A  patient  and  manly  form, 

To  and  fro,  by  the  foremast, 
Is  pacing  in  sleet  and  storm. 

Since  her  keel  first  struck  cold  water, 
By  the  Stormy  Cape's  clear  Light, 

'Tis  little  of  sleep  or  slumber, 

Hath  closed  o'er  that  watchful  sight 

And  a  hundred  lives  are  hanging 
On  eye  and  on  heart  to-night. 

Would  that  to-night,  beside  him, 
I  walked  the  watch  on  her  deck, 


Recalling  the  Legends  of  Ocean, 
Of  ancient  battle  and  wreck. 

But  the  stout  old  craft  is  rolling 
A  hundred  leagues  a-lee  — 

Fifty  of  snow-wreathed  hill-side, 
And  fifty  of  foaming  sea. 

I  cannot  hail  him,  nor  press  him 
By  the  hearty  and  true  right  hand  - 

I  can  but  murmur,  —  God  bless  him ! 
And  bring  him  safe  to  the  land. 

And  send  him  the  best  of  weather, 
That,  ere  many  suns  shall  shine, 

We  may  sit  by  the  hearth  together, 
And  talk  about  Auld  Lang  Syne. 

February  3rd,  1859. 


ANACREONTIC 

"  It  is  worth  the  labor,  saith  Plotinus,  to  consider  well  of  Love, 
whether  it  be  a  god  or  a  divell,  or  passion  of  the  minde,  or  partly 
god,  partly  divell,  partly  passion.  .  .  .  Give  me  leave  then  (to 
refresh  my  muse  a  little  and  my  weary  readers)  to  expatiate  in  this 
delightsome  field,  '  hoc  deliciarum  campo,'  as  Fonseca  terms  it, 
to  season  a  surly  discourse  with  a  more  pleasing  aspersion  of  love- 
matters.  .  .  .  And  there  be  those,  without  question,  that  are  more 
willing  to  reade  such  toyes,  then  I  am  to  write."  —  BURTON'S 
Anatomy  of  Melancholy. 

EROS,  graceless  Wanton !  thou 
Wast  mine  earliest  playfellow. 
Well  I  knew  thee,  roguish  Elf! 
When  an  infant  like  thyself. 
And  thou  still  must  needs  abide 
Clinging  wilful  to  my  side. 

Every  other  frolic  mate 
Long  has  grown  to  man's  estate  — 
Other  childish  sports  have  past, 
Other  toys  aside  are  cast  — 
One  alone  could  yet  remain ; 
'Tis  the  vainest  of  the  vain  ! 

Still  this  fond  and  foolish  heart 
Must  enact  a  childish  part, 

157 


And  in  Beauty's  Presence  still 
Feel  its  wonted  boyish  thrill. 
Chide  thee  —  shun  thee  as  I  may, 
Thou  hast  ever  had  thy  way ; 
Many  a  subtle  snare  hast  laid  — 
Many  a  wanton  trick  hast  played. 
E'en  at  Learning's  council  sage, 
Thou  hast  perched  upon  the  page, 
(Latin  could  not  mar  thy  glee, 
Greek  was  never  Greek  to  thee,) 
And  when  Wisdom  should  prevail, 
Told  me  many  a  roguish  tale, 
Many  a  scene  of  vanished  Love  — 
Dicte's  cave  and  Ida's  grove, 
And  the  mountain  fringed  with  fir, 
And  the  paths  beloved  of  Her, 
Who  the  sleeping  hunter  eyed 
Couched  on  Latmos'  shaggy  side. 
Of  each  old  enchanted  spot  — 
Tyrian  mead  —  Egerian  grot  — 
Each  dim  haunt,  remembered  yet, 
Where  mortal  with  Immortal  met  — 
Darksome  glen  and  sunny  glade  — 
And  all  the  pranks  that  Sylvan  played. 

One  kind  turn  I  owe  thee  —  one 
Kindly  office  thou  hast  done. 


Ne'er  shall  I  forget  the  hour, 
When  thy  soft-persuading  power 
Led  my  footsteps,  roving  wide, 
To  the  Sleeping  Beauty's  side. 
Wearied,  like  a  child  from  play, 
Lightly  slumbering,  there  she  lay. 
Half  a  crime  though  it  might  seem 
To  disturb  so  sweet  a  dream  — 
Yet,  with  tender,  reverent  soul, 
Softly  to  her  side  I  stole, 
And  the  only  means  did  take 
Such  a  slumber  e'er  should  wake. 

Like  a  half-awakened  child, 
Gently  then  she  moved  and  smiled  : 
With  a  soft  and  wondering  glance  - 
Such  as  Gyneth  wore,  perchance, 
When  she  oped  her  lovely  eyes 
From  the  sleep  of  centuries. 


PRESENTIMENT 

STRANGE  heaviness  —  I  know  not  why, 

The  old  grief,  methought,  had  grown  more 
light  — 

And  no  new  ill  hath  chanced  —  yet  I 
Am  very  sorrowful  to-night. 

It  is  not  that  I  cannot  bear 

The  burden  countless  hearts  have  borne  — 
It  is  not  that  I  shrink  to  wear 

The  garment  countless  limbs  have  worn  — 

Nor  that,  through  sordid  care  and  strife, 
The  soul  her  comrade  must  sustain, 

To  draw  with  pain  the  breath  of  life, 

And  break  their  daily  bread  with  pain  — 

(So  fiercely  hath  it  drunk  of  joy, 
So  deeply  drained  the  dregs  of  woe, 

That  common  grief  may  scarce  annoy, 

And  common  good  were  pale  and  low)  — 

But  that,  to-night,  from  out  the  throng 
Some  surlier  shadow  flickers  still  — 
160 


Some  wraith  of  old  ancestral  wrong, 
Or  cold  rapport  of  coming  ill. 

Haunt,  an  thou  will,  gray  evil  gone ! 

Thrill,  an  'tis  thou,  dumb  pang  to  be  ! 
The  heart  can  hold  ye  both  at  one, 

That  knows  a  sadder  guest  than  ye. 


MIDNIGHT— A  LAMENT 

Do  the  dead  carry  their  cares, 

Like  us,  to  the  place  of  rest  ? 
The  long,  long  night  —  is  it  theirs, 

Weary  to  brain  and  breast  ? 
Ah,  that  I  knew  how  it  fares 

With  one  that  I  loved  the  best ! 

I  lie  alone  in  the  house. 

How  the  wretched  North-wind  raves ! 
I  listen,  and  think  of  those 

O'er  whose  heads  the  wet  grass  waves  • 
Do  they  hear  the  wind  that  blows, 

And  the  rain  on  their  lonely  graves  ? 

Heads  that  I  helped  to  lay 

On  the  pillow  that  lasts  for  aye, 

It  is  but  a  little  way 

To  the  dreary  hill  where  they  lie  — 

No  bed  but  the  cold,  cold  clay  — 
No  roof  but  the  stormy  sky. 

Cruel  the  thought  and  vain  ! 

They  've  now  nothing  more  to  bear  — 
162 


Done  with  sickness  and  pain, 
Done  with  trouble  and  care  - 

But  I  hear  the  wind  and  the  rain, 
And  still  I  think  of  them  there. 

Ah,  couldst  thou  come  to  me, 
Bird  that  I  loved  the  best ! 

That  I  knew  it  was  well  with  thee 
Wild  and  weary  North- West ! 

Wail  in  chimney  and  tree  — 
Leave  to  the  dead  their  rest. 


IN  ARTICULO  MORTIS 

THE  monarchy  is  very  old,"  he  said, 

"  But  it  will  last  my  time  —  then,  after  us, 
The  Deluge  !  "  and  meanwhile,  (his  thought 

ran  thus,) 

Our  Pare  au  Cerfs  —  and  Damiens  to  his  bed 
Of  fire  and  steel.  A  little,  and  men  see 

That  plague-scored  lump,  gasping,  "  Je  sens  la 

M>rt." 

(Had  that  brief  word  been  thine,  ah,  long  before ! 
France  had    been    happier  —  and    'twere   well 

with  thee.) 
One  cries,  "  The  King  is  dead  —  long  live  the 

King!" 

What  loyal  haste  in  every  heart  prevails  ! 
In  yon  deserted  room  a  hideous  thing 

Through  open  windows  taints  the  soft  spring 

gales. 
Hear  the  stampede  of  Courtiers,  echoing 

Like  thunder  through  the  galleries  of    Ver 
sailles. 


164 


QIPIL  MOURUT 

NOT  a  sob,  not  a  tear  be  spent 

For  those  who  fell  at  his  side  — 

But  a  moan  and  a  long  lament 

For  him  —  who  might  have  died  ! 

Who  might  have  lain,  as  Harold  lay, 
A  King,  and  in  state  enow  - 

Or  slept  with  his  peers,  like  Roland 
In  the  Straits  of  Roncesvaux. 


MARE  NON  CLAUSUM 

As  one  who,  for  a  bark  that  nevermore 

Shall  meet  her  gaze,  still  looking  wearily, 
Wanders,  in  wistful  longing,  on  the  shore 
Of  the  vast,  desolate  sea  — 

Thus,  in  vague  quest  of  that  she  gathers  not, 
The  Soul  along  Life's  margin  lingereth  — 
And,  musing  on  the  inevitable  lot, 

Walks  by  the  waves  of  Death — 

Of  that  drear  flood,  whose  ne'er-surveyed  extent 

This  our  existence  ever  darkens  round  — 
Amid  whose  barren  waste  nor  continent 
Nor  island  hath  been  found  ! 

Yet  Hope,  Columbus-like,  would  fondly  deem 
Far  in  those  gloomy  depths  a  Land  may  lie, 
Of  beauty  never  dreamed  in  human  dream, 
Ne'er  seen  with  human  eye ! 

And  when  her  timid  feet  the  chill  tide  laves, 

Voices,    nigh    lost,  come    from  that    far-off 
Land  — 

166 


Lost  in  the  wearying  of  a  thousand  waves 
Tumultuous  on  Life's  strand. 

How  fare  they — parting  souls — that,  ferried  o'er, 

See  all  the  known  receding  far  behind  — 
And  catch,  as  yet,  no  glimpse  of  that  dim  shore 
That  waits  the  eternal  Mind  ? 


THE    END 


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